Eleven Mirrors

 

Eleven mirrors

  hang from the ceiling:

ten to remind you

  of how you’re feeling,

 

one to paint upon

  a darkened mask

that steals away

  your secret past. 

 

Truth from dust,

 upwise slips

the earthy bed

 that the mastiff kicks.

 

Five more seconds,

 ten more hours

‘til bed-ward send

 the sleeping coward.

 

Tomorrow’s wet

  and the following heat

are bent to score

  and burn the feet

 

that walk upon

  its martyred heart,

the steps you’ve made

  at home-ward's start. 

 

Heaven’s march,

 ill smile fit

two matching scars

 of tired wit.

 

Five more seconds,

 ten more hours

‘til crumbles mine

 the stony tower.