Mirror Man

I stare; but it isn't into nothing,
although nothing is all I see.
Noting each transformation,
each shape, and curve, of me.

A pool, a river, a lake,
a puddle of shining perfection.
And then come I along,
with my insulting reflection.

The ripples I cause will scar him,
and will never be repaired.
And I will stay the only one,
who ever truely cared.

For what sees he in those who stand,
admiring themselves?
In handbags, behind cupboard doors,
on on one's bathroom shelf.

He sees truth, like no other,
though he's never given praise.
Instead he swallows shouts and tears,
on our routine blue days.

But tomorrow he will be there,
and seem somewhat forgiving.
His punishment for judegment,
when he himself, was living...