"Each morning it is her face that replaces the darkness. In me she has drowned a young girl, and in me an old woman Rises toward her day after day, like a terrible fish". ~ Sylvia Plath
It’s tempting to believe
visions deceive, through a glass darkly.
The lens phlegmatically receives
a topsy-turvy replica – it cannot lie.
Only the systemic post-processing
converts until the world comes right
before our eyes.
What if Narcissus never found the pool?
If reflection was pensive, the thinker in stone?
Neither the self-image we seek to see
in others’ eyes nor in the solitary silvered glass.
Dusty with age and thickened
layer upon layer of pasted faces.
The countenance in contemplation
before the tasty temptation
to tittivate, adulterate
and at the vainglorious end of vanity
to turn mercurial mirrors to the wall
Touching on some existential authenticity with today’s image prompt from the Sunday Muse