minus the regenerative

the mirror takes no
prisoners, for it doth
reflect all the ugliness that
composes the present &
very real
you
that stares back,
smashing again & again
with fists full up to the brim
with conglomerated
rage---
it grows back,
faster than the hydra,
whose tentacles lash back
in the face of all
uncompromising
&
stark
reality---
with the ambition of youth
burnt away,
barely noticeable in the
ashtray of one’s fading
existence
&
the future curling up ahead
in a brand new open
flame---
balancing on the high wire
like Kurtz’s snail
slinking along the
razorblade---
hating that so much is lost &
dreading that so much is left to
live,
with all the good memories
echoing like a searing pain that
cannot be cauterized,
yet cannot be followed up with
any newness
whatsoever---
minus the regenerative power of
the broken mirror that
reveals all cruel deterioration,
Orwell’s laughing in his grave,
for the deserved image of
50 is driving rapidly like an
oncoming train &
you better believe that
there
are
no
brakes.