...in my boxers...
The mirror beckons him near on a cold, cold night.
He's restless, longing for that which he can't place.
There's an ache within him for ... something. Something.
He places a hand on his beating heart, and feels only
He stares into the mirror, surprised by his reflections intensity.
Has he lost all awareness of himself he wonders, caught
caught by the gaze of none other then himself in glance.
In his eyes he peers, deeper and deeper, seeking, finding only
Every movement of himself is a movement in his eyes.
He watches, waits, wondering what he will do next.
Suddenly, he blurs in the reflection, and his memory dominates.
He's free-falling back to when he was young, free, free of
A child, so happy, so free, so unaware of this world as it truly is.
When did we, he wonders, so callously rob the young of innocence?
We are now cold, calculated agents of awareness, needing to plunder.
This world is never what a child dreams it to be, nothing close to reality's
I float back to the present, as tears trickle my eyes, leaving their mark.
My heart is slowing in rhythm, in beat, as my sadness overwhelms.
The future is now, the present is the never-ending blinks done by eyes.
And yet, all I feel is violated, violated by the present reality, and my
[This message has been edited by PoetryIsLife (07-23-2003 11:44 AM).]