By M.Mohankumar
This morning, as I stand before the mirror,
the face that stares at me troubles my mind.
I rub my eyes in disbelief and look again.
The same face, staring. I’m bleary-eyed
and disheveled, I concede, but that doesn’t
make a face so outrageously different,
and far from prepossessing.
I feel flattened,
like a deflated balloon.
For I’ve always prided myself on my lithe,
athletic figure, and my face in particular,
‘stunningly handsome’, as many have put it.
How can it change overnight?
.
Something is amiss. My eyes?
My eyes may be bleary;
but bleary eyes don’t distort.
It must be this mirror- glass or glazing
or both. This mirror with its ornate frame,
that came as a gift, framing my face
as I stand before it, staring in disbelief.
I’ve stood before many mirrors,
Have stood before them elated, proud
of my handsome face: nature’s gift
that I have nurtured with tender care.
And I’ve seen it acknowledged
by effusive girls with their admiring eyes.
I’ve been adored like a youthful Greek god,
come down from the Olympian heights.
Forget the mirrors that lie, I say.
Look at the admiring eyes of the young girls
They tell it; they tell it all.
