He was not me, I was glad to know,
In the looking glass, the man so old.
He was not me, I knew the truth,
Before the mirror, the man of youth.
He was so short and I so tall,
He was not me, no not at all.
Shoulders slouched and eyes so rheumy,
Drooping cheeks and visage gloomy,
Red swollen knuckles on wretched hands,
Propped up on shaking legs stands.
This man whose youth had come and went,
On choices made and life misspent.
You are not me! I screamed at him,
His mocking smile spread tight and grim.
I begged, I pleaded, just a bit more time,
He shook his head of thinning rime.
My heart it beat, then slowed, then stilled,
To my knees, to the floor, I spilled.
Surreal it was my life’s reflection,
Before my eyes in ghostly surrection,
Of chances gone and moments remiss,
Of putting aside a life of bliss.
It seems he was me after all,
Revealed the mirror, the mirror on the wall.