Your grin may be wide, my Dear,
but I can see that blackness in your eyes.
I hear your voice tremble;
feel your hands mourn.
Your grin may be a crescent moon,
but no light illuminates it,
and there is no longer any beauty in your presence.
You are clouded over
with stale remedies and drunken birthdays.
Your skin may be sleek and tan,
but I can see that pale old man
slipping through your fingertips.
And though you say yours is the picture of health,
disease emanates from your mere touch.
Yes, I remember you,
I had thought the world of you once,
but now I know your Purgatory.
And yes, your grin may be wide, my Dear,
yet it does not disguise you,
you cannot hide being the part of me
trapped in the looking glass.
