Reflection’s Tenacity
by Odin Roark

Reflection of troublesome dreams
urges the morning razor scrape away battlement’s stubble.

Rushing past alcove mirror,
he dons his public smile,
cringes at his fraudulent persona,
steps into the day’s likeness-reality,
tries to grab a piece of who everyone thinks they are,
should be,
aspires to be,
or remain resigned to be,
and travels downtown.

Out the limo’s tinted window,
images continue their haunting,
the them of how he once was,
the him of them,
the daily identity mash-up.

A day spent going through motions,
as that is what he does,
reminds him illusion is what it’s about,
what it has always been about.

Such repeats the everyday…

Ticking off the time to cocktail hour’s retreat,
where caramel-liquid’s reality,
the 3-finger, no ice stillness
of guilt’s resonant ripple,
awaits to drown the masquerade again.

Sadly…

He finally reels back into the darkness,
still blinded by the bombardment of self,
mumbling as he staggers back into his limo,
“I’m a good guy, god damn it… a good guy.”

With studied resolve,
the chauffeur squeezes the door shut quietly.
“Yes, Senator. Yes, indeed.”