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Each morning, the mirror before her bed
Captures her tired eyes:
Tired of seeing into the reflection she created

Tired of wondering if her dreams are still valid:
Tired believing in her lies,
Weary of the truth beyond her reflection

Each morning, she wonders if her breath is her own
If the cup of coffee is real
If the voice on the radio is speaking to her
Or echoing the rhetoric inside her own mind

Each morning, the news is superimposed with inconsistencies-
Every frequency she tunes into
Stumbles over and over like a worn out
Momentum of mislaid prayers and lost musings

And only a vague recollection of sweet scents
Is recaptured in a rhyme or two
Scribed within the aroma of lost affections

Here, there is little to speculate upon:
The sunrises in the east and sets in the west

At least these truisms still remain
As references points to respire within
And offers some solace
That life still flousishes
Beyond the fluttering movement of bedroom curtains

Here, when she looks to the sky
Through her clouded window,
She remembers when love was alive
Before it was twisted into a heartless shape
And became unrecognizable
Even to itself