mirror of mine

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: War and Military  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: April 03, 2011

A A A | A A A

Submitted: April 03, 2011



There are times I shame to find my image in the mirror. Thereare times the sound of my distant and muffled voice cause me to cringe. The are times I detest what I feel to be truth. There are times...I am weak and vulnerable. The words of others, the cry's of women, the sheik of children, all of different and same color, all of them from distant and close lands. They are horrified at the reality of that they perceive I am. Afford me to recoil, and back up.

This place I know well, its wallpaper ever changing but the shape of the weathered and time worn walls always the same. The floor, its ceramic tiled absence of mirth, ever present underfoot. The sink, it holds my attention longer than it should, the cool stark white of its curvature, the cold gleam of porcelain rigidity. I look to the sink and think on its design, its purpose, its reality of fortune and use. I focus on it because I know the alternative. My sight curses my mind, my mind curses my conscience. It is just ahead, just before me now. I can see it without looking to it, I refrain...

Its the tattered edges of the cheap brass frame that tempts me now. The wicked shine and flicker of the old style, exposed flame, space heater that dances in its reflection. You see, it reflects the flicker of flame, it is that reflection my mind can grasp, can handle and accept. It is that reflection that I can peer to and inspect without fear of collapse. It is that reflection that lures me...every time..to gaze upward into the abyss. The mirror. the horrid, the dominant, the unforgiving and truthful mirror. Unfeeling, unrelenting, the bitter sweet holding of the images it regurgitates to my eye, to my mind, are of no concern to itself. The harsh blessings of revelation are so delicately and overtly strewn upon the thoughts of my decay without regard and without apology.

I pear into it, it holds me, the false sense of security mixes with the abusive under tide that awaits. I know this. I fear this. No scratch that, this is not a tale of self reflection. This is a glimpse at the affects of a weak mind and an easily seduced spirit. This is a story of a proud and guilty people. Of the ramifications and dire afterbirth of self doubt and sightless guidance. This is what is to be me...to be you.

The call of the world to claim rights on your own bitter condemnation and the relentless grip of the tiresome hands of false justice are the things that grip the face that shines in sweeping dullness in the mirror before me. Its the claim of the glass on the flesh of the student.

The jawline of the face in the mirror, harsh, strong and rough. Every shadowing stubble so perfectly chaotic in placement and short in length. Not the noble abet careless innocence and wisdom of the uncut beard. The bristles, so coarse, are edge length and ridged in poise. The mind can almost feel the irritation they offer and threaten upon unmarked and unscathed flesh. The affect, the rough scratch of the scruff would bestow upon the soft and thin flesh of one as fragile and perfect as a child. The line of the chin itself is nothing if not perfectly straight and sharp in its misdirection. Not a single flirtation of a genteelness in its curvature. It can be seen how countless strikes would do no more to soften the jaw than to meet sharp pain in contrast if inflicted. The jaw of intimidation and silent warning.

Passing up I see the mouth in all its subtle yet strange obscure seduction. The curve and dip of the lips not so thick. The slight and uninviting downturn at the corners. Every word is able to slip and fall instead of proclaim from this mouth. Not one word would need the air of one heaving chest be wasted to push from this mouth. The slightest release from the stern lips commands obedience. The setting and frame of the portal of commandment exudes all that is strict and compelling. See to the wrinkles that line and caress the wretched lips. Years, lifetimes of strain would be in their past and woven on their intricate and often overlooked cracks. The mouth of a man, of a creature that spends more time in strained restraint and forced enforcement than in hails of profound and uplifting wailing's of laughter.

The eagle born to those who pledged their lives and sacred honor

was smiled upon by god and freed from chains and iron collar

he is held aloft on unity, and by history, revered

for preserving peace through strength his wings now reach across two hundred years...

...but for each of those, and one year more, God has smiled upon The Corps...

from the Barbary Coast to the Eastern Sand, by sword, by gun, or by dare hand.

So it's been, and shall be weighed:

Though many are born...few are “made”.

Faithfull Always, they shall remain...

Dogs to loose when war is waged.

© Copyright 2017 Nick Garcia. All rights reserved.

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