In a place where the rotund mirror,
Never commands any soft surprise.
I can see myself ever clearer.
Very slowly I open my eyes.
For what they are I see them here now,
A curious existence of mocks,
For a greener blade of grass they vow.
They cow the sharpened hands of the clocks.
Upon a wooden porch swing with sun,
Contentment finds me waiting this time,
Gently warming my legs there undone,
In this floating world I am the mime.
Slipping in and out of that calm place,
I am a reflection I can face.
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