Reflection of a Soul

In the quiet, I hear you.

In the stark silence, I hear you speak.

A whisper really, as you peek

from behind a partial shadow,

clutching a stage curtain tightly

to your chest.

You flit through the darkness

with a sad dexterity, and I can’t see you.

But I feel you. I know where you are.

I glance quickly to your location

but you’re gone, and as I blink my eyes,

I feel the air brush my neck as

you slip by, almost unseen.

Closing my eyes, I see you.

You’re looking right into my eyes,

and I blink to give you relief.

Can you see me? I think you

must, or you would bolt by now.

I see deep into your wounded heart,

your shattered remnant wearily sighs as I

gently support it, and it’s heavy.

Empty should not be heavy. I peer inside

and see so many bundles from other

people, but not your own.

I reach for what I came to do. I pull a

shiny mirror from my coat pocket, and

I taste your tears as you see your self in

the mirror. My mind hears you say that

you’ve never really seen your self before.

That you don’t need to, because it’s all

about what you do for others that

matters. The others. Some have hurt you,

spit you out like a bitter tonic. And some

have devoured you in a forbidden frenzy.

And they control you. You innocently tell

them how to without realizing it, and they

adroitly maneuver you in with a

powerful and cloaked spell, binding with

a calmness that intrigues

you and that you relish, its origin a

mystery. You crave it and move toward it,

deeper into the dark recesses, until you

don’t recognize the area. The spellmaster

smiles, runs his hands over you and

empties you, again and again, and you

feel filled by being emptied. After all,

isn’t it your purpose to give all, no matter

what? A jaded part of you cries inside and

another raw part rages, because

you’re obligated to make the sad one

happy. With no thought to your self

because your value is only seen in a

spellbound cage. Gilded, shiny and warm

with incentives neatly placed so you are

drawn back in by the one who holds the

key. The key holder, spell binder, knows

the code. You hear the “ tink” of a worn

chain and your senses become undone.

Beautiful prisoner, I see you. You have

cried out to me before. Your captive smile

a thin paper flower, your own sadness

denied by the adroit “sadness” of others.

Look at me. See me. Hear me.

You’re safe here with me.

Look in the mirror.

That’s your freedom looking back at you.