Mirror of Mortality
Like feathers bristle untouched skin
Death cracks open wide, again
Wounds that well beyond heart’s brim
Tough now tender, stretched sheer-thin
Sadness beads on silvered glass
Fallen tears fill heaven’s flasks
Fragile lives reflect like brass
On golden ponds dyed ether-black
Veil of heaven, drawn, one side
Curtains closed with eyes shut wide
Sun sleeps in an endless night
Eclipse of mourning shades moonlight
Awakened by mortality
Midnight mirrors twilight seas
Dust and ash stare back and speak
Echoes of life’s brevity
In the midst of flesh and bone
Mist of ’morrows, yet unknown
Vapors of the vast bemoan
Body, spirit, soul - unsown
Wisp-white clouds combed by wind’s
Hands upon the face of time
Buoys on blue ocean’s rhyme
Bells of borrowed minutes’ chime
Pools of love leave saline stains
Viewed beneath the lens loss gains
Compassion clouds and mem’ries rain
Of loved ones buried ’neath the pain
Condensate obscures the view
Lost within the looking through
Window panes marked in bold hues
Alight the heart as strength renews
Stained glass lit as candles weep
Hope sails seas of murky-deep
Soothing waves of grief, replete
In unrest spirits longing peace
Days elapse to weeks and years
Loss exhumes the past and fears
Unstitching scars in mortal mirrors
Does time hem whole beneath dried tears?
Loved ones passed, bereft refrains
Reverberating fragile frames
Eternal dwells in hearts that pang
Cymbals’ chorus angels rang
Capture - soon spring winds will blow
Scattered seeds that sorrow sows
Tend them ’til love’s flowers grow
So Fall leaves Winter, white as snow
see the world through repercussion
through bad action in justification
trip over an illusion
to gain more validation
or seek admiration
in the land of manipulation
where each life decision
is made without clear vision
in the wrong direction
so lost in contradiction
for real truth’s a mere fiction
defeated by self-deception
hides behind false good intention
dissent stirs strong reaction
spit of hate over self-reflection
reinforces a pleasant division.
something’s off with sweet disposition
but once again, gut feelings work with
between the lines full of blurred definition
at last one soul is saved from pseudo affection.
Pic: ©Laura Makabresku
What if you came home after a hard day’s work with a full heart to witness a glorious setting sun on an average fall day to notice in your peripheral vision through the dappled shade of a stand tall oak in your front yard that something just wasn’t quite right? Without rolling down the window, you smell the irregularity first. A mildewy unpleasant acrid smell, if you had to guess, burnt compost? Putrid. And you step out of the car to see it, and you don’t want to believe your eyes, so at first you convince yourself it is just a result of the sun going down; shade coming from the oak, holding on to wishful thinking.
By now you should know better. You who have had DYKE spray painted on the driver’s side of your your Camero. You who have had your partner’s picture defaced at work with an anonymous note attached to the broken glass that said, “Die faggot freak!” You that had relatives disown you even before you came out. And others insisting you change the subject when you finally did find the courage to come out, with silencing words, “That subject makes me feel uncomfortable,” or “Why don’t you look into conversion therapy?”
Holding your breathe, you look down at the ground, allowing your eyes to witness, briefly, with dry cheeks because you are long out of tears.
A cross. Burnt. Across your entire lawn. A cross that was not there when you left for work. Telling you that this abomination had to take place in broad daylight, to the heads of neighbors turned away. Turned towards what? God? The bible? The bible that teaches love your neighbor as yourself? And the note. Hung with masking tape to your front door confirmed the horrifying hate crime, “Sinners beware. God’s wrath will find you.” So with incontrovertible proof, only a fool wouldn’t call the police. They will help you, make you feel secure in your sanctuary again. Restore your dignity.
Stepping inside, grateful that the house wasn’t burnt down to the ground, you call the cops, they come out, make a report, investigate, and reassure you that they will get to the bottom of it. And then they call you in a week to tell you they have caught the perpetrator. They tell you he is sorry, he won’t do it again, and no they will not reveal his identity to you, and they urge you not to press charges, so you don’t.
Instead you go outside under the cover of darkness, plant some grass seed and then you watch it grow from the inside feeling lucky, because you know all too well how much worse today was for others like you. The suicides, the physical violence, the murders, HIV. And you wait facing down fear, for the next big dose of hate to find you, keeping a smile on your face, because you refuse to give them that too, unwilling to let the haters define you, knowing you are who you were born to be, ignoring the tag with your number on it spinning in a lottery cage, hopeful against odds your fatal number is not drawn, smiling, living, breathing, inside their world, until, as you.
You hung me on your vanity,
Beside your brush and lace,
I see you every morning,
When I become your face.
My edges are made of plastic,
To hide my too-sharp ends,
I have no choice but to see you,
So we might as well be friends.
I help you with your makeup,
I tell you not to wear white,
When the camera tells you you're ugly,
I say you look alright.
I know you see things like me,
Throughout your busy day,
I don't mind; I just wait here,
To make sure you get home okay.
Sometimes you look at me and weep,
And I can't figure out why.
I see every part of you, you see,
And I would never lie.
You say your eyes are too dull,
You claim your nose is askew,
You tell me your face is too ugly,
For anyone to love you.
But you don't see what I see;
I see eyes that are full of life,
With a deft nose, and a strong face,
Able to overcome any strife.
But even though I see your face,
Each morning and every night,
You don't believe that you're beautiful,
And you don't think that I'm right.
So you bring your fist up to my face,
And you splinter it through my heart,
Your fist is bloody, but you raise it again,
Determined to tear me apart.
I now lay broken on your floor,
Beside your brush, beside your lace,
The last thing I think, before falling asleep,
Is I'm glad to have been your face.
subtle hints of blade’s keen
glittering chiseled edges
planted in the chest
stirring vague sense of
belonging somewhere down
in the guts
gone with the wind
when days carried on
bearing the pain
of things untold
gasping for lifeless air
in lively world of the dead
beneath sinking skies
where stars crumbling
into your callous gaze
over the web of lies you spun
and for once, i belong to you
when nothing left for us to hold on to.
Pic: ©Laura Makabresku
I Got You
This is a PSA.
I want to talk to you. Yes, you. How your day was, who‘s your favourite author, what’s your Hogwarts House?
But also if you ever need anything please reach out to me. For literally any reason. This community is very supportive, and it’s amazing for me, I want to help people if they need it.
Just shoot me a message, literally anything. “Hi”, “John Green is a legend” or “What are you reading rn?” works too. If you say “I need an editor”, “have any advice” or “I don’t know what to do,” I will help. I will try, my best at least. I am a little awkward, and make some mistakes, but hey, we could do that together?
So please reach out. If you need anything. A friend, a book recommendation or just someone to talk to. I’m here for you, and your writing and your works.
(Tag me in the comments if you want to start a convo or write “I got you” to show everyone else you’re here for them)
Thank you for your time and your support Prose. Please reach out people, we got you.