Nearly seventy, the horizon dims steadily,
where faces blur into solemn evanescence.
The glass mocks truths I once ignored,
renders youthful confidence an antique mirage.
These lines, etched by decades of whispers,
frame a portrait I struggle to recognize.
Time’s quiet cartographer surveys the flesh,
mapping loss with an indifferent precision.
My laughter, though resolute, sounds foreign now;
its echoes crawl through unfamiliar corridors.
The mirror convenes ghosts of unsaid choices,
offering riddles only regret dares answer.
Who is this stranger wearing my absence?
A thief skilled at stealing my certainties.
Still, some rebellion stirs beneath the surface,
a heart protesting its gradual unmaking.
For reflection owns no ultimate dominion—
it holds me captive, yet I remain more.
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Author:
gray0328 (
Offline) - Published: November 13th, 2025 09:56
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 11
Offline)
Comments2
So well written Gray this poem inspires reflections and yes as the last two lines say :
For reflection owns no ultimate dominion—
it holds me captive, yet I remain more.
Loved it
Thanks Soren
Most welcome Gray
And then who are you, now? The sum of the past or who you look like in the present? Very nice
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