The world yet spins,
I don't claim to understand why;
Why is it so preposterous?
It's plain vanity that it doesn't lay down and die.
The mirror haunts me,
The reflection is only in grays and shades of black;
A multitude of hideous replicas in the smashed portal,
An image of every sin imaginable in between the meandering cracks.
I open my window, expecting some relief,
There isn't warmth, but perhaps I have finally gone blind;
Holding myself, shivering in a corner,
I mutter: "What happened to the sunshine?"
