Friday, July 9, 2010

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.


  1. I'm so glad that mirrors aren't humans.
    Very nice write, Penny.

  2. As a new writer of sonnets myself, and an increasing appreciator of the craft, I say well done, and thank you for the company.

  3. Welcome to the madness, then, dear raven! I find it rather an enjoyable one.


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