I don’t quite like that guy.
That fellow standing in front of me.
Looking back at me. Looking just like me.
He stands tall, his heart is fair,
But I don’t like some of what I see.
His form’s not perfect.
It’s tarnished in places.
I can see his flaws up close. His blemishes. His warts.
All, in plain sight.
And what is that discolouration?
Faulty vision or something in my eye?
A birthmark? Not quite,
It’s more than skin deep.
I keep staring, observing.
I can look into his eyes.
If I squint hard, I can see into his soul.
I can even read his mind.
I’ve been watching him for a while.
The chap seems familiar. Very familiar.
But some features are almost like an imposter’s.
I notice he’s laterally inverted.
Like some of his thinking, perhaps?
Some of his habits?
Let me alter my perspective,
Change my view.
No, that doesn’t help,
It’s much the same.
This mirror that I’m looking into,
Tells me he’s an image of me.
Of what and who I am.
And this same looking glass makes me realize
If I am to like all of him,
The object needs work to be done.