Fruits of Mirrors


Enemies have more in common than friends.

Seeing one in another’s eyes, in that ageless rage;

Fighting for the same thing, from opposite ends.

The man, the mirror, the reflection of him;

Are three different beings; but not to him.

He sees himself; he sees his own enemy.

Then the breaking begins; a hydra of terrors.

In the end no one remembers the mirrors,

Nor the spark that lit the gunpowder plot.

Just a swath, scarred, pillaged – a field of dead.

Boys washed up, girls drilled – plagued forever;

With an indelible suffering that cannot be said;

Nor felt, by anyone other than the lads,

Who see the fights; ingest the sights,

And reflect them back onto mirrors.

And see war-scarred faces of fathers,

And mothers and brothers and friends,

And them – etched into their DNA.

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