In Which I Subtly Pimp An Anthology

The mirror which confronts us ev'ry morn,

So often holds such secrets, we believe,

As only we have known since we were born,

Has watched us smile and wonder, even grieve.

What would it say to us if it could speak?

What secrets does it hide beyond its edge?

And knowing us as it does, just how weak

And sometimes strong we are, what could it dredge

From memory to show the world if such

Were possible? What horrors, if exposed

This way, could ruin us? Reach out and touch

Its surface. What? There is none? You supposed

A thing with that much power would just let

You do that? Now, see what else you will get.