If mirrors could talk,
I no more would require
To scribble,
With the atrocious reed of pretentions,
These hypnotic verses of necromancy.

The sheen pages of stoic diaries
Would feel no further suffocation
Under the huge debris of prayers,
Returning from the gates of Heaven-
Unheard.

No more, from the decayed ceiling
Of my unattractive room,
Would hang, like the mighty icicles,
The nails of my past.

I, instead, would talk,
To their crystalline planes,
And from their candid bossoms,
I would obtain cure to my
restlessness.

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