The views of an inanimate object, in verse, on its owner
You’re clearly narcissistic. You’re the soul of vanity.
You gaze at me for hours but it’s never me you see.
You feign a sickly smile and you stroke your stubbly chin,
And marvel at your profile when you’ve pulled your stomach in.
You see yourself as elegant, a star of stage and screen
Whose face would grace the pages of a glossy magazine.
You pose like some Apollo with a supercilious air
And manufacture faces while you rearrange your hair.
Blind to every aberrance and abnormality,
You idolise a fantasy that only you can see.
Your hair is white, your teeth are brown, your skin is granite-grey,
You’re nothing but a sad old crock who’s long-since had his day,
And yet the wreck before your eyes you doggedly reject
And choose to see what you select and not what I reflect.
But knowing that there’s none so blind as those who cannot see,
Perhaps you're wise to close your eyes to what’s confronting me.
Comments