KS Culbreth

Kissing Mirrors

Have you been, ever, to the room
of kissing mirrors?

It is what they are doing there,
eyes stuck with arrows.

The room is black and white,
scattered seas of silk sheets.

A thick white casement surrounds
the only window.

It lets in only a whisper
of frosty light.

Yet these are bold screams to
those pressed against the glass.

The room is full, a very old
warehouse unused, abandoned.

Scattered pots of daffodils longing
to be plucked or for a bed to share.

Against the walls everyone has
their own mirror.

And they are kissing their silver
mirrors, twisting against them.

Writhing against the silver glass
wishing, twisted, shimmering silk.

Seas of pearly silk shimmering
reflected in silver glass.

In the silver glass reflect
the liquid eyes, chrome of amaranth.

Rustling in the shimmering shine
of silver glass, kissing mirrors.

By their own moans deafened to the
frenzied whisper of eternity.

Eternity lost or gained in a moment’s will,
deafened to all beyond their own moans.

To their living Echo that pines away
to a mere voice.

The narcissus blooms beautifully but is all
that is reflected in the pools of watery eyes.

The living Echo pines away to a mere voice,
eternity muted by the momentary.

They kiss their reflections, twitching against
the arrows in their eyes of glossy chrome.

Trying to touch, reaching
for reflection to embrace them.

Writhing on the warehouse floor
of parched planks splintering.

Serpentine alone beneath silk sheets
rustling in the whisper breeze of light.

Kissing, dragging their lips across
silver glass smeared with red.

Silver glass smeared with red
reflecting liquid eyes.

Wishing and writhing, and kissing,
eyes open wide with torture.

Shot with leftover arrows Cupid
was only discarding.