The Mirror
I
Remind my eyes of the things they embrace,
Reflect the reality I believe.
The mirror image of myself I now face,
For what reason would my portrait deceive
My perceptions—forms bound by features,
Shaped and cut by the sharp, crystalline glass?
I see a roughness, an uncarved texture
Polishing after time has come to pass.
There is no confusion on the surface,
The thin, sea-blade slicing across the shore.
By the blunted edge, there is no purpose
To sunder things much deeper than before.
I look and find I appear so clearly,
Thus the clarity is all I can see.
II
Thus the clarity is all I can see,
But what lies underneath the illusion?
Do I simply peer upon an effigy
Opaquely drifting in a dilution?
As the broken colors blend the bright air,
Mixing it in the shadow of context,
Am I sure of the sights that exist there?
Optically, it would seem I'm perplexed.
My perception paints itself impasto—
Thick, smearing shades cloud my faint impression.
How do I truly expose and then show
The experience of my expression?
My focal point is not now purported;
My vision is completely distorted.
III
My vision is completely distorted,
Disclosing for me what I find as true.
My existence seems to be escorted
By a now more revealing point of view.
Ev'rything is an act of confidence,
A faith in conceptualization.
If we can believe in a consequence,
We are under its spell of persuasion,
The magic trick of pareidolia—
Patterns emerging within random stimuli.
The tongue unrolls its glossolia
And then all lucidity liquefies:
A drool of the fake authenticity
Dripping from the lips of veracity.
IV
Dripping from the lips of veracity,
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poem by Tim Stensloff
Added by Poetry Lover
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