I often stare into the mirror and ponder the connection
Between my existence and my own reflection.

I wonder if he toils over trivial pursuits?
Does he ever long for riches and Armani suits?

Does my reflection live his life when I’m not there to see?
And when I scream does he scream too, only, silently?

Does my reflection’s sorrow represent that of my own?
Or is it just a mirror, and I’m just alone?

An echo of the features, true, but echo of the soul?
A frightening thought, believe in something that we can’t control.

Do his tears mean nothing? Is his laughter just a void?
Can he, like me, be something— Created and destroyed?

I wonder if he knows of joy— that emotion I’ve forgotten
Does everything there keep its grace, or do things too go rotten?

Does my reflection lose his sleep, like I do every night?
Has he any morals to tell him wrong from right?

Is my reflection gay? Is my reflection straight?
Does he know to feel love and if so can he hate?

Can my reflection conquer everything I haven’t yet?
Can he recall everything that I seem to forget?

Does my reflection think I’m ugly— Although we look the same?
Has my reflection sinned like me and does he feel ashamed?

Has he any knowledge of what I’ve kept in secrecy?
Am I part of reflection— Or is he part of me?

 
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