Mirror Image
a meditation

Hardened silver liquid, smeared behind the surface of glassine crystal, tells no lies to those who dare peer within. Truth, for the most part, is a joke today. Only within ourselves can any semblage of purity be maintained. Two optical units, a perfect pair of pale sagen hue, stare into their twins, encaptured in the reciprocator. Within is harbored turmoil, yet it goes unnoticed.

About this duo was smeared artificial enhancements in varying shades of lavender and steele, penciled over in ebonite. The course of the day permits little more than endarkened smudges in surroundance of the visionaries ton linger come the time of the fall of the bastard fire king. Facade is of porcelain tint without aide, yet fine dust of pallid white is added atop, blanching what little colour wants to exist into shades found only in the deathly or decaying.

Those which never smile are painted in hues of blood or onyx. The choice of any particular cycle is arbitrary. Antiquated artificiality of burgundy tint fades into shoulder grown tresses, falling limply about in disarray. They bare the neglect which they have had but no choice to endure without shame. Presentation to the world is of the least priority. Descending about and enshrouding the fractured porcelain facade, they fall in dissaray upon ebonite fibres, interwoven, which disguise shoulder constructs and fall about the illusionary curves of her bodice.
Examining her entity, she sees within a desperate plea for help. But it goes unanswered.