The one who looks in the mirror
Fakes me
He laughs when I smile.
When I cry, he cries.
I laughed, and he cried.
I cry, and he laughs.
Can you fight him?
What to do with him?
Get into the glass.
Looks in the mirror 🪞🪞
Let's draw him.
But in the world, he wandered—
Keep your feet on the ground.
With a circle of light around the head,
If the world starts to believe
What to do?
So what?
It was only after entering the glass that it was too late.
Hugs and embraces
Glass is a tomb.
About the Creator
Ahamed Thousif
🌟 Welcome to the realm of exploration, where communities come alive through the power of words! 📚✨ Join me as we embark on a journey to discover the vibrant tapestry of stories and Poems.
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His Haibun
He does not like poetry; I write it anyway and do not tell him. It's true his face is not a poet's face. It is round and open, youthful; too apt to be compared to the sun. His nose is neat. It is impossible to imagine him smoking a cigarette, terse, full of cheekbones and tension. His warmth burns my fingertips. I am here for his fascinating body, the haphazard freckles I touch one by one; he is here for my eyes, just my eyes. A sunbeam sneaks through the curtains and pierces us both, sizzling the spices of his skin. I inhale and wrap myself in him. He kisses my eyes.
By TheSpinstress7 days ago in Poets
Comments (1)
Nicely written!