The mirror asks him: is his life simple and orderly?
The hansomely man in his suitable suit
Tightens his tie and licks food off his cheek
But deep down he’s not forgotten the wild child
When his imagination was a battery of dreams
Speckled egg shells, laughter in the woods,
Charred leaves ringed shell-holes and secret dug outs
A place to hide from demons and devils lurking
He would save her swinging from tree to tree
Just to impress her, watching from below
Later for an unnamed longing, he felt adoring so
He engraved her name with his pocket
Knife into a tree that grew inside him
He’d still be swinging there now if he could
But he found family, modernity and mayhem
And the mirror still asks: is his life simple and orderly?
And now he’s late for work.
