Diving into mirror pool of my soul,

I hear a splash but can’t seem

to reach the white-capped brine

of floundering past

as I grow cold and shiver

in its fading rippled reflection.

Moody swan wings through my veins,

hearing waves of my soul

throbbing inside and outside

on sheen of mirrored water.

Two faces under water struggle

with swells of true essence,

sands of time burst out of my heart

drowning in turquoise tears.

Tides weep in salted crash of currents

duplicating the shell of my soul

I watch my ship sink into the silt

blowing whispers into my heartbeat.

I stare, lost in those pulsating eyes,

Hurt, scattered, yet very much alive. 

I can almost  hear the wolves howl.

I see a new wound open as another heals now.

The tears bring out my blue-gray eyes, 

If I could only quit staring into the black,my demise.

Flashes, wet and fallen eyelashes,

Blood red whites and restless nights.

Determination, to spite it all,

I am here, I hear that call.

Heather Hughes. 

I see nothing,

No vision,

No substance,

No soul.

I am nothing

Without my exterior,

Because I am empty inside.

All I am

Is what others make me.

I mold myself to

Be exactly what they want,

What they need.

But there is no me

Underneath.

I have spent so long

Wearing a mask,

Believing the mask,

Becoming the mask,

That the mask has

Melted everything

Underneath.

Like a vampire

With blood upon

Its lips and death

In its eyes,

My true reflection

Shows nothing

Because there is nothing

Beneath to show.

I am just an

Empty suit of skin,

Wrapped around

A column of hot air.

Who is that, with lines carved on an untouched canvas?

Lines that run deeper the more she caresses them?

Lines hallowed by meaningless fears and the fear of being meaningless.

Who is that, with two tarnished diamonds perched on an invisible throne?

Aimlessly looking for a sparkle that was never theirs,

forever condemned to the ruthlessness of despair.

Who is that, with bloodstained cheeks?

streaked not with embarrassment but with red artificiality,

made up to cover her spots of genuinity.

Who is that, with a crescent moon hanging its head down low?

ashamed of the brightness it could bring to the bleakest of nights,

but too prideful to let sunlight shoulder the ache of his plight.

Who is that, I wonder?

Her face a beautiful caricature of disaster.

If beauty was carefully constructed deformity,

she would be art devoured by its monstrosity.

Who is that, I wish I knew,

Opposite of replicas but replicas of two opposites.

For she was sown from the roughness of silk

while I was cut from the finest of plastic.