I Lost Your Mirror

Will we ever meet?
Or have I sculpted your image
from Morphean sand?
Yes, I built you from chance unfinished tales.
Yes, you built me from hints and visions.
Let us melt the mirror
and meet among our refracted reflections.
Spirited winds ride
the tightly woven strands
of your long dark hair.

I have seen death walk the old café.
She wears my mother's pale mask.
Her hair was once black, but is now all grey.
She is dark star hunger.
She is infinite need.
She is intimate chasm, intricate cataclysm.
Her porcelain mask has yellowed.
Her legs are gangrene trunks.
Her hands have wounds for fingers.

That is not your reflection.
This death mask is the sentinel I pass
to bring you from the mirror's mercury side.
Mercury melts the dust.
Your hand grows through the glass.
The protector stands to one side.
The sentinel has forgotten her false name.
Your face draws near to mine.
Our tale begins, again.
We return from the forgotten country,
being sure
not to turn our gazes back.

after seeing Cocteau's "Orphee"