Rusted Mirrors
Rusted mirrors
are stones polished into funhouses
of smoke and silver
slivers of words
we were never meant to note,
markers on trails heavily rutted
with the lost footprints of those
blindfolded before us.
Yet we forge on,
valiant in our quest
for anything that swears
to soothe our singes,
for something to balm,
unseen waters over the fires
of our veins' burning maps,
synapses, vessels,
iridescent threads that connect us
with the helm of God.
We call to him
from behind the charlatan’s door
because she tells us it works
if we pay her.
So we patiently knock
at her poorly lit back door,
hoping no one sees us,
poor inside our souls
but not inside our wallets.
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