The Mirror

“A narcissist?”—he asks himself, unsure.

The mirror paints his portrait in reverse.

“My left is right, my line of sight obscured;

“Light from your polished surface bends transverse.”

“What man is this who claims the floor as his?”

He asks his mirrored visage—gravely torn.

“I blurt my fleeting thoughts—no time to pause—

“For silence robs the meaning words adorn.”

“Should my formed thoughts eclipse unspoken thoughts?”

The mirror listens—silent and inured.

“Are my ill-timed remarks a measured loss

“Of signal, filled with noise, inversely squared?”