The Looking Glass: rough draftIn a musty attic,Where cobwebs gatherAnd drape themselvesAcross long-forgotten treasures,The sunlight falls in streamsAs airborne dust catches its radiance.There, caught in that stream,The pale-faced girl kneelsBefore a gilt-framed mirror,Her glassy gaze falls downwards,To the rotting timber planks beneath,Not even noticingThe image trappedUpon her looking-glassThe mirror boasts notOf her reflection,But rather, caught behind the glass,Lies the sallow appearanceOf a man, once young,With bruises for eyes,And rivers for nostrils,And a pallid ghastly faceThat looks to her, pleading,Breathing prayers of adorationThat fall on deaf ears.Her glazed eyesCould never reachHis desperate gaze,Could not registerHis fierce poundingUpon the frame of his prison.He might have well been a ghost:Silent, invisible,Yet unable to rest. The mirror turns.Now, the man is on the outside,Pleading with her to look,To ra
AGFAA : final draftUpon the solemn shore, I stand, My feathers itching for the breeze;Feet bound by earth, I lift my hands To hail the whisp'rings of the Sea.'Tis claimed to be for good, this hold-- That freeman's life is chaos wrought--While half-bred tales fly past, untold, And shackled hopes are left to rot.The time has come to rise again. The Hermes bird may call my name,But bloody ankles slip through chains, And I'll not let myself be tame. On shattered wings I'll learn to fly, As sorrow's cry rings through the sky.