What is time?
The word, whispered on a sigh
dampens my surface
with misty breath,
the images that come and go
register little with me, yet
to those who peer into my depths
this noun, ‘time‘
teases and taunts.
A smile, a frown, a blush, and tears.
I reflect them all
as their years pass,
while I
the glass, stay placid.
Their panic rises to haunt with age
they come to despise me
with a rage
I do not understand.
©
Copyright
VMM 2008
Comments
artisus | October 11, 2008 - 13:40
fantastic ! excellent..! xX
Ewan | October 11, 2008 - 17:23
I never thought I'd feel sorry for a looking-glass.
Very nice: I wrote looking-glass because there is an antique/archaic feel to this poem which I rather admire.
Lovely.
Ewan
Bradene | October 13, 2008 - 15:38
Hey! thanks Nic. Val x
Bradene | October 13, 2008 - 15:41
Yes I see what you mean it is a much nicer term. Looking Glass.. it has a nice feel to it. and I know how you feel, my God I feel so sorry for mine every blooming time I glane into it. It scares the bejesus out of me! (-; Val