A study in Poetry

Mirror Lives

Back on the grind,

We're running, running, running

In the dark with others of the same kind,

Mirrors of each other,

Fighting ourselves for opportunity.

The doors are open just enough for a little light to leak through.

Piercing the darkness,

We can all see it. Bound to the ground, we want to fly through

Our own set of heavy metal doors.

Most of us make it to the doors while we can still see.

I'm one of them.

I slip my fingers in between the cold walls of closing metal.

They push together like two rolling tanks.

My frail fingers fight the force of the titans,

Prying, prying, prying, prying

My wrists start to give and my ears are ringing. I feel like I'm dying.

I can see from the corner of my eye,

Some of my reflections have already opened the doors and slipped through.

Others are struggling just as much if not more.

The light still leaks through my door. If I can just get my foot in on the bright floor...

It's almost blinding,

But I don't dare to close my eyes.

I'm able to catch a glimpse of paradise on the other side before

My arms tire and I can't pry anymore regardless of how hard I may try.

Tired,

I stumble through the cold darkness of this box of mirrors I'm stuck within.

I know,

Tomorrow the doors will open again.

And I may fight once more.

I saw more trials awaiting on the other side,

Before paradise.

I know,

I may die trying.

But what else does life offer?

Some of us starve out and wither away.

Some build the fire within.

We seem old.

We feel old.

But we're not old yet.

The next day comes,

And sure enough the doors open.

We get a glimpse of life,

And sure enough,

Like mad dogs, we send ourselves tumbling toward the doors.