new poem 4 July 2019

The Dark Mirror

She stands before the tall thing of wood and glass.

The reflection back at her, is not of her own;

But of what might be, dark and deep.

She stares back at herself; her other, darker self.

She stands before the solid wood frame,

And places her hand lovingly along the side.

As though she is in a trance.

It calls to her to come inside.

Forget all that is, forget all that once was.

She could escape for a short while.

But would they really notice,

If she was to disappear into the dark realm?

Alice could just go slip inside for a short while.

It would not be very long, she promised her mind.

Just long enough to forget all that has come to be.

She would lay among the blackest of flowers

And sing along to their sad, woeful laments.

She knows of those songs all too well.

She caresses the ornate carvings along the frame,

Debating more with her brain.

She could sit with the mad hatter and the march hare;

Share in their lovely little poisons of teas in their cups.

The assortment of flavors surfacing upon her tongue

As she digs back in her memories.

Her reflection smirks at her as though she knows

All too well just what she has been thinking.

She glances back at her darker self with the side of her eye;

Wanting to tempt her to step on through herself.

A simple shake to the head tells her this is not so.

She gives a sigh and contemplates further.

The roses are painted black there with tips of blood red.

She plays her finger along the glass slowly

Until her hand stops in front of her.

She rests her palm flat to meet herself.

She gazes up into her reflected eyes that seem to shine

She smirks again and pulls her other hand from behind

Revealing that same thought of flower before them.

Thoughts become wishes into fruitation here

You know that all too well, too, my dear.

She could be free and have no cares anymore

But she knew she could not last that way long.

Standing before the tall thing of wood and glass

She stares at their same hands on the clear pane.

Similar, yet different, all the same.

She slips her other hand to take the rose

And removes her other hand away.

Giving a nod to herself as the other nods

Knowing what her answer was for now.

She watches as her darker reflection steps away

with the Cheshire grin fading slower behind her.

She rolls the rose as black as the darkest night upon her hand

Never noticing the tips of blood red dripping to the floor.