The little boy is out again,
So cheering and with such a smile,
Reflecting all the world and buzz,
Which strikes and bounds in every laugh:
The almost standing in a chair,
The fire and dance in all the stories,
The looks of unstayed mirth which seek to find a mirror in another's eyes.

My face in foamers' disarray,
Breaks on the sand so sparsely speckled,
Dancing polygons ever in collapse,
Like mirrors of a muddy thought,
Like all the breaking waves of unchecked hearts,
Why must it be so straight when I am else,
Why others shall I feel so cloudless clear,
Except on rainy days when I am poorly wet.

O little creature by the lake,
Come wrap now in vermilion wools,
For in the ripple of its folds,
A face, no doubt, is surly long.

With a stagnant malcontent,
The stillness is a deathly cool,
That leans too full upon the soul,
And dips the heart in ill-fit dread.

You, O little one, are for the wools,
Which cover you from head to soles,
Which cast in worlds unsaid a happy scene,
Not mirrors but a peak through knitted thread,
At home without this weary selfward gaze.

Slipping on another face,
The former falls in shreds,
The categories of youth,
Tug - firmly at my sharp gaze.

Is a man within his hair?
Within his strength and stride?
Is he found in his eyes?
Or - met in his deepest care?

Though I change to a new face,
My mind is held the same,
So samely holds my look,
Subverting change I see:
The same man quickened in the glass.

Encroaching silence with its legions of,
Thought. Myriad reflections surface at,
The falling heel, which strikes a muddy pool,
Draws into each speck every ounce of day,
But is undone and flitters as the light.

Estranged from myself when looking in my face,
I hardly see a boy now his memory is faint,
Perhaps he came much of... whatever looks like me,
But I cant seem to find the continuity,
For memory turns faint when gazing in my face,
Perhaps I'll see one day when I've finished this long race:
My Lord and all my ways within His eyes.

Man in the mirror,
I can hardly remember when you were not so,
It seems the tides of time have washed your face,
Like sand you've slimmed imperceptibly,
Like sand it's dragged away the marks of youth,
Yet I see a sparkle in your eyes,
As shiny rocks that glimmer in the water's wake,
You are becoming yet become,
And if He wills I'll watch the wisdom mark your face,
In creases 'till I hardly remember when you were not so.

Passed the muddy mirror once again,
Now settled slightly by the side,
A tiny desert on the mirror's bed,
The turmoil heaped to solid hills,
That glance upon their painted faces,
Clouds and tinted-brown sky blue,
Trees that dip into the mirror just the same.

I see a dog in the distance,
Turning mirrors into cascading sheets,
That fall and splatter on the muddy grass,
At once from the depth roiled,
These mirrors in the muddy grass,
Hold smokey geometry below the line,
And dash their muddy pictures on the image of the trees.

I saw a bird in obsidian cloak,
Make ripples and a flaring splash,
Knee deep in mirrors on the muddy grass,
Playing free to dust and clean itself,
To shed away all filthy things,

Now skyward march the bouncing rays,
Up with the swooping droplets lest they fall,
On rippled clouds and sky below,
Off now the bird unshackled from the dust,
To leave the mirrors by the swaying grass.

Framed mirrors on the wall,
To turn the sight back into self,
To look behind and grasp reflection,
Framed mirrors on the wall,
Held up as windows into plain sight,
Left there on walls to behold later.

Mirrors in the muddy grass,
And your glory permeates the land,
The light hangs like pearls -
Drooping off the edges of leaves,
They seem burdened under the weight,
Yet hold it with pristine elegance,
And their brilliance warms the day,
Even on the ground you place glistening gems,
Catching wanding sunlight and storing it,
Resplendent on their gleaming heads,
The light falls gently now,
And the shadows seem brighter,
All the while your beauty triumphs in the dimming days.

Greetings flipped self,
I seem to see you surprisingly sequentially,
Day after day when I observe light that twice graced my face,
I guess I see you differently to the rest of the world,
Always swapped and switched,
Always dead on except for a little crook in my neck...
That bends my head up and down and side to side,
To observe a perpetually almost there beard...
There happens to be one being who sees both my face swapped and switched and in its right sides,
Both to know and carve from dust he did.
I see many people lying dormant in the folds of my expressions,
He sees the journey and plans he has for me,
And his image imprinted into my deepest recesses.

In the window, I see him,
Staring back at me,
His eyes on my eyes,
Light brown and deeply curious.

I follow the bump of his nose,
And ring his eyes along the momentary wrinkles,
They seem to dig in and lie still.

I blink and they remain,
Young mind and an old face,
Old mind and a young face,
A tension to tell the both of us that we are citizens of another land.

A land where wisdom comes to the humble fool,
And decay remains the side character in the story of a great salvation.