Facial

It is not me.
My wrinkles, my sunken eyes,mistrusted frames all are the magical works of divine time
neately knitted with the golden and silvery threads
embroidered in sophistry;
The old lady of the moon with always a smiling face weaving but with a pitiless hand.
Sinking a face within a face .
A mirror within a mirror
Even i do not recognize me.
A pure deception.
But a soul always without a little increase or decrease.
A shadow broken and dispersed but always contemplating and recombining itself.
A machinery always reviving
and i find it in secret ,undestructable. Rate this poem:(0.00 / 0 votes)