I trace the lines of my face,
Putting all of the contours in place,
And I look at the artwork on mirrored glass,
No, artwork it is not, I’m not that crass.
Nose, underscored by mustache hair.
Beard bristling, long, bushy and full,
Blacks, reds, blonds, one white hair in the middle there.
“Who is this stranger in the mirror?” I mull.
His eyes, a grey hazel, gold rings around the pupils,
Cold, dreary, neither dancing with joy nor mirth,
Beautiful eyes, nonetheless, of a man with many scruples,
Holding a flicker of light, dying since birth.
Who is this strange man looking back at me?
He looks so tired, ugly, unhappy, wishing to be set free…
I take up the razor blade and bring death with a stroke of the wrist,
Setting that unhappy man on his way, granting his wish.
I look at the new picture, this mirrored trace,
Look at the hard lines and contours of his jaw,
His eyes now full of mirth, the brightest light I ever saw!
It seems I found a happier man hiding beneath that grizzly face.
~Goodbye my beard, I’ll trace you again another day.