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