Mirage

My life is a fleeting mirage 
For I am seen only when 
The light glances the water just right 
Under the maddening moonlight and the men 
My life is the futile painting 
Of too thin lips and sunken cheeks 
With rosy varnish and cultures rouge 
For every minute of every day of every week 
I am an ephemeral name 
To with every inferior I enslave
That they should have the combined syllables such as I 
Even when I cannot take it to the grave 
I am the trivial dress in which I wear 
That flounces about when I spin 
As it comes to be too much a part of me
For it has been sewn into my skin 
So when it comes to my reflection in the mirror 
It seems that I am no more than that I fear. 
-anna sluder

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