A Life of Its Own
When, when,
when will it end?
You go again to the mirror
and again you see my face.
We've been doing this too long
for me to call it love
because whatever it is, it
isn't that,
because whatever it is, is
a symbol and a silence,
because whatever it is, has
a life of its own.
I go again to the mirror
and again I see your face.
I, I'm the wind-up doll,
who made you up.
You wind me up
to write you poems,
prayers in the shadows
that whisper more than sing,
songs in the shadows
that you won't believe.
Whatever it is has a life
of its own.
You go again to the mirror
and again you see my face.
Now the doll writes
whatever she wants
and you don't like it, and you lie
about it and yet you look,
hiding the sun itself in the cool shade,
watching from the shadow
of a mad man with a heart.
He would look like you
and whisper in your voice
an act of faith.
He would, but the glass is cold.
Whatever it is has a life
of its own.
I go again to the mirror
and again I see your face.
I listen and I hear my breath.
You want me to see you
and you want me to say
that I don't and I wonder
when, when is it
ever going to end.
You go again to the mirror
and again you see my face.
I go again to the mirror
and I see only your shadow.
Our hands touch the glass and
the glass is cold.
Whatever it is has a life
of its own.
~XineAnn