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Standing Stoned In Glass Houses.

Updated on January 11, 2010


Standing Stoned In Glass Houses.






Stained glass,

reflecting colors I abhor,
reversing who I really am inside,
with external silvered views
slathered on the dark side.

I would break you but I
don't have 84 months to
spend missed fortunes on.

Besides you

abide everywhere,
in this ego tainted society,
full length, three way, and
wall to wall views skewed
as I rush by tugging
at a recalcitrant lock of hair,
straightening a tie,

adjusting a collar, 
in my addiction

to self awareness.

Wait there's a pimple,
ugly knot of red,
leeched with white
begging to be squeezed
out of existence
on the clearer sill of a mirror.

You bring me morning face
like some Quasimodo photo
of my worst side exposed,
the hump becoming my head
bouncing from the back 

of your cruel countenance

Or some hungover
mask of pain that is
sculpted with all the flaws
of my vices spent.

I have grown old
in your presence,
on your honest canvas of glass,
shine my decades displayed.

I would avoid you
until I was unkempt,
but then the faces of others
all around me would mirror
what I have denied you.

So I study my daily
glass menagerie,
always seeking some
glimmer of hope,
but finding only
the starkest of truths.






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