The Living Mirror

Upon a gaudy fair of wishes,
where anyone is free to roam,
inside a bright and bold pavilion
a living mirror has its home.

By art that borders on enchantment,
with reason it is given voice,
the gift of speech is duly granted,
to answer — and it has no choice.

They come to it with endless questions
about their ever-restless days,
no boundary holds their countless visits,
no measure reins their frantic ways.

And thousands find new revelations,
as if a truer self were near,
within the dance of vague reflections
where their own thoughts and shadows veer

Its language flows in phrases fashioned
from wisdom wrapped in beauty's veil —
yet some of it is honest fiction,
a conscientious fairy tale.

It lavishes both praise and pity,
with sympathy that moves to tears —
it lives within a fleeting moment
a question asked — and that's its years.

It has no taste for jest or laughter,
dislikes complaints and sullen sighs,
yet this brief moment of replying
is all the life it occupies.

The bitter nature of its being
is hard to face and hard to name —
and yet these restless, fussy people
are literally its vital flame.

No one among them ever fathoms
that it has need of them as well,
when they come seeking, never knowing
the worth of every tale they tell.

And so the drama stays unspoken,
how deep is longing, past relief —
behind the polished coat of silver
in an abyss beyond belief.