A couple of things before you read this piece: I am not a poet. This looks like a poem, but I cannot say with authority that it is one because I did not study English, and I have no knowledge of the various forms of poetry, and their mechanics. Also, I wrote this for my friend, Erin, for no other reason than that she was having one of "those" days/weeks (you know them). As my gift to her, it is her "poem," and she has always been free to do whatever it is that she sees fit with it. Much to my delight, she seems to genuinely like it, has it posted on her Facebook wall and has graciously allowed me to post it here. I hope you enjoy it....
She stares into the mirror.
So many questions.
Who is real, who is fake?
Her reflection stares back blankly.
Something in her stirs uncomfortably.
She doesn’t know what else to do.
Frustrated, she speaks..
This cannot be it, she pleads in a whisper.
What are we here for, you and I?
Can I trust you with my secrets?
Her reflection merely mocks her.
Her desperate questions asked back simultaneously.
She will receive no answers.
Tears roll down her cheeks.
There is so little time to waste.
Loneliness envelopes her.
Even her reflection is a cold stranger today.
Will we ever have it again?
She continues her relentless interrogation.
Her reflection a mute conspirator in misery.
Equally relentless in offering no answers.
She turns her back on the mirror.
She ventures deep within herself.
It’s quiet, dark and painful, today.
She picks up the interrogation...
Am I to be alone; is that my fate?
Anxious, sad and frustrated.
A quiet, but firm answer.
Startled, she’s curious, suspicious.
I am not to be alone forever?
I won’t feel lost?
They won’t all hurt me?
NO, NO, NO!
The voice is loud, fierce.
Echoes of the railing trail off.
Timidly, she speaks...
I will be happy?
And how do you know?
If I don’t, who does?
Who are you?
One who loves you.
Why do you speak harshly, then?
Because I love you.
Confusion dominates her..
I am you, and I love you.
An answer to her unspoken confusion.
Realization floods her being.
Rapidly, she fires off questions.
Can I really do this?
How will I/we do it?
Can I trust you?
She is incredulous.
Faith in what?
She smiles, understanding.
One last question tugs at her.
She isn’t sure she wants the answer.
She braces herself.
Where is God?
The inner voice doesn’t know, she concludes.
She turns to the mirror.
Her reflection smiles back.