Self-Reproach – HEG George

An offensive mirror 

produces my face, 

and ears listen to a 

hackneyed heart beat 
The stench of stagnant 

breath confirms my 

identity and smoker’s 

status. Sixty a day 
The cold floor held 

by blood drained feet, 

a razor held in hand 

at mannequin angle 
The bile in my throat and 

the fur on my tongue 

congealed with the sickly 

sweet syrup of life dripping out 
The door behind falls open on 

its own axis and the mirror 

reveals an empty room effused 

with a pall of used smoke, 
Like grey mists rising on a moor, 

seeking fresh lungs to enbalm. 

I think I see a shadow of someone waiting. 

And I think that someone is me