Mirror

 

A cute little piece of work he was,

The progeny of Belgium glass,

Says my father,

He adorned the plain white walls,

Of my humble room.

He had been hanging there,

Since I started calling it 'my room'.

He became my mirror, eventually.

It was him whom I greeted

Each morning,

And it was him only,

Whom I bade adieu each night.

As years passed,

Paintings and strange marks,

Of my own creation were,

Engraved on the walls,

To keep him company 

In the lonely hours,

Bereft of my presence.

I stood upright in front of him daily,

Against the black cloth

Of pin drop silence,

And we exchanged ideas

In mutual muteness.

I unfurled myself to him;

On exam result days, sometimes,

Tears smeared my face,

But he stood beside me,

Consoling me with invisible hands,

Which was all I needed;

When elation took hold of me,

I displayed it in front of him,

And he quietly shared my happiness,

With equivalent mirth;

He was never one among 

Many of his kind,

Or so I felt,

I preferred him better,

He was my friend, best of all,

Besides loyalty was his uniqueness,

I conversed with him for hours,

He reciprocated my feelings;

He was an inseparable part 

Of my life.

But, one day;

My naughty little sib,

Began raiding my room,

On that fateful day,

I entered my room,

Only to rip my toe,

By the cruel jagged end of my mirror;

There lay my mirror,

Staring at me from all directions,

From a thousand shards of glass,

And the culprit lay on my bed

With a maddening grin;

I was terrified to look at,

Those pieces which were mine,

Which were myself, lay shattered 

And my heart filled with sorrow,

Beyond all possible repair;

My heart bled like it had never before,

I felt blood oozing out of my toe,

I felt engulfed by a bloody darkness,

And there was nothing left but,

Red, red and red everywhere.