Through cold eyes I gaze upon perfection,
And yet a sigh would deign to cloud my view.
How could such stagnant silver bear a god’s reflection
And yet still hold its burnished glow anew?
How could it capture once the me that was,
To throw before me now that which I’ve seen?
How could it bend most adamant of laws
And toss His plan to ravens while I preen?
The question’s pull grows dull once more,
The face of Heaven’s beauty drawn and droll.
For in this silver portrait of my core
I see a canvas more of paint than soul.