Imperfection is my scandalous reflection of self-loathing;
One that I would scarce harbour
But in the far flung fields of dire humanities
The carrion-birds swarm, circling
Like a cyclonic feathered rage upon our heads.
And In its not so tranquil naturalities,
Twists it turns, a skyward eye sees;
The skeleton begging for crows.
Words, bloom and die on the vine,
Deluged away by the bittersweet rains of thought and contempt,
Possibilities are drenched, useless,
Life call but no one is home;
Yet still, the mirror-face is a honed blade,
Cutting deep but cleanly, healing;
Blood runs it course always,
Cuts straight to the heart.

© Tom Stanley