A reflective pane tells me nothing
Of the workings of my heart, mind, or soul.
It casts some truth on outer being,
But tells relatively little of the whole.
Who, mirror, am I?
What have I become?
I should act! Should go! But still
In wrenching repose I lie
So utterly undone.
I stare with wonder and despair
Back at myself through treated glass
And wonder if I'll ever dare
To take a step--not simply pass.
A reflective pane brings only pain
As I bear my inaction's shame.
--C.R.E.
