You look at the glow of the super moon,
At a flawless circle, epitomizing perfection.

So was by legend, Cleopatra, and by myth, Helen of Troy.
We all like to see some beauty in us, outer or inner,

Like that feeling which sponsors effervescent mirth,
From a one-way transaction with a roadside beggar,

Mirrors are ubiquitous; in the bedroom, above the sink,
On the outside of a car, some hand-held, some hung in the soul.

All are badgering truth machines, inescapable, almost
Like the nagging sun during the daylight hours,

And mirror images are far from idyllic sculptures,
Only an offering of honesty, of a fine glass-like reality,

A reflection that you look at, either directly or with tilting pupils,
In a myriad of deft angles, gazing at a familiar creature,

Who fails to meet up to your high expectations.
Still, you graft a tongue-full of flattery,

Harvesting an eyeful of dishonesty from a mirror’s face,
Oblivious that deception is like a daffodil,

A blooming Narcissus.