Poetry

The Actor

Why do we talk to mirrors in the dark hallway?
Why do we smile at them?

Is it because they can keep a secret?
Is it because you’re depraved for the service they offer?
Or Is it because they’re enslaved to the same?

The radiant candour spirit walks free,
The defiant mimic stalks, wreaking a killing spree.

We haven't lost those ancestral traits.
The hunts through those ancestral days.

With the consolatory echo that ran across framing kin,
Funny that you haven’t despised yourself as of now.

Alas!
Cheaters and liars make of the world as brethren in the same.

The mimic is weak, a feeble magician.
An unrefined statistician.

Unwary of the shrapnel left behind.
A treasury of floo, with a name inscribed.
And soon your game described.
BEWARE.

A Wave of Gratitude at the candour spirit across the country.