Once upon a time the man in the mirror was a child.
A child with tireless hands,
a strong heart,
and access to an endless garden of ever ripening fruit.
But the vine of intention has long since withered,
its roots receded;
decayed.
The endless garden is now but a patch of brown,
a poor plot of earth,
and just a breeze
and a breath
away from dust.
Once upon a time the mirror held a child.
Now all that remains are wrinkles of worry,
bags of regret,
a fixed frown,
and a lifetime of lists—
lists that only hold a handful of checkmarks.
© Copyright 2009 Christopher V. DeRobertis. All rights reserved.
