I stare into the grey reflection in the mirror of the creature whose eyes, so dead, look back.

It reverses the polarity of my glare as I stare into the voids existent in the center of its brown, beady eyes-

so expertly hiding,

so masterfully deceiving.



Her eyelashes quiver
As the restless wind blows so desperately through the evergreens.
She hums with a sort of wistfulness,
or desire,
As she leans
against the balcony
And looks to somewhere beyond the horizon.
A belief holds her like strings of a puppet:
Maybe her calculating, wary eyes
Would be able to detect
The small, unwaivering movement
Of a future different from the one she knows she must suffer,
As if the road that stretches to every corner of the world
Would possibly be able to take her somewhere easier,
Somewhere kinder,
Somewhere better.