Looked Glass

The mirror fails to uncover
matter's truth:
light is affliction
a fiction
sweet or sour diction
prepared to lie to whichever
eye sits before another 
faulty organ.

Low sounds course through 
the river ritual: 
we die after we spawn,
it makes parenting easier.

Don't call it a cynic,
it's an iron cycle:
the magnet's magenta
flushes files
back to a future
no one deserves.

Snap, shot,
it's shotgun season,
dears are wishing
letters were the kind of ammunition
that lives through a barrel. 

Sontag wouldn't approve:
gun analogies are a cancer.

It's a dour society
that sees itself out the window
smashing windows
and draws the blinds.

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