sometimes we look in reflections
to see what has passed behind us,
to see what in our past still remains
imprinted into the film that
separates present and past,
the molecular region where
we end and the outside begins
sometimes we look in reflections
in search of a mirrored essence,
hoping that real, drawn expressions
comes at least close to emotional sketches
sometimes we pray that the brilliance
of the lush hue of blood's crimson ink
has not given up life to a dried peat brown
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