Polishing the Mirror

In time we are no longer

testing the arguments

that our experience

will somehow make us stronger

as if each pang of hunger

itself were sustenance,

as if the circumstance

of age could make us younger.

No more this vain pretending

our skin gets tougher when

we feel reality

burn like the sun.

We are born to suffer and

bear our mortality;

there will be no happy ending

before this day is done.

But this too is from the sun:

a secondary fire cast

from rippling waters,

a flashing picture

of the waters’ movement

brushed upon the wall,

and you start to see that everything

is a mirror of a higher power

of aboriginal light;

But this too is from the sun:

the bent reflection of passing souls

on a dagger’s face

whose verging angle

and sharpened edge

turn angels into devils,

and you let your dagger talk to you,

but it never tells you what is true

or what is false.

In time all secondary

images turn to gray,

stealing the light of day

and leaving ordinary

impressions on the mirror

of our mortality,

yet we may never see

a time when truth shines clearer.

No more this disregarding

what keeps our darkened hearts

strong: each determined beat

comes from the sun,

and every spark imparts

the sun’s eternity

of truth that keeps on burning

after the day is done.

And this too is from the sun.