photo: Taverna, Mykonos, I love the old mirrors that distort reality

The blurry mirror

of silvered glass, a gleam

not quite me,not quite another

like  a ripple stolen from the midst of a thought

The light blurs me,

like the mist over the loch,

below the unconscious depths stir,

the ancient shadows rise,

their voices soft as the breeze through the pines

then I fracture into thousand of me,

each a whisper, a wave

breaking upon the shores.