The Glass Man looks in the mirror’s
Pupil and sees himself asleep.
The iris a gold-flecked halo,
A crowning of thought with errors
So lovely he must wake and weep.
His eyelids blink so: slow . . . slow . . . slow.
The Glass Man rouses and rises.
He foresees the coming crisis,
When all that he believes matters
Shivers from within and shatters.
What sonnets he has written out
Are more a whisper than a shout.
Like a mirror he turns face down,
Glass is all he has ever known.
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