It's the ghost in the mirror, the shadow in the corner of the room. <br />The cascading thoughts that drift through my mind so steadily. <br />It breaks and scrapes, takes away, again, again, another day. <br />It's where you are, what you've become, darkness. <br />It's a memory that rests in me, the forgotten, the fools. <br />Old weapons, just tools. A broken butter knife, made of plastic. <br />The sense of things that do not condence, <br />A mirror with no reflection, the blindness of night. <br />Light or dark has no preception of wrong or right.<br /><br />Moth Harris<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/100-faction/
