Looking, not seeing
looking through the frosted glass
hoping for the reflection he knows will pass
not seeing, though looking
at the looking glass.
am I blind?… his thoughts he hears,
alas he looks again and again, then
upon shouting, he gathers his pain
and so the frost from his shout did melt
the mirrored pane.
while looking he saw his reflective hell
that experience he wish to quell.
soon upon his shoulder lay
a tiny mist with golden rays
imagination so intense
a golden wand did span an arc
and soon his looking
balanced his art.
the mirror his heart
the reflection his hurt
the mist his will
the looking his path
all in rising from a broken past.