Books are mirrors, some say
and I know that some of my
friends, when they look in them,
always see their reflection
staring back, as they’ve seen
since they were kids. Then
there are some, like me
who only see their reflection
when it’s blown up to such a size
that every pore, every pimple
and every uncertain smile
is visible, the words
behind the mirror irrelevant.
I even know people who
have never seen their reflections
on the mirror pages.
They keep thinking their reflections
don’t matter, maybe they’re broken.
But I know better. It’s
the mirrors that are broken,
and one day soon, they will
all be replaced with new ones,
so everyone can see themselves
in those precious tomes.
Treeshallow Musings 