Vanity-1.pdf

Vanity

Every morning, my friend, he

stands in front of the

Vanity

transfixes the mirror with a critical eye, his scrutinizing gaze admitting no fault

He rubs it, teases it, slicks it back

shapes it, moulds it, a work of art

It glistens with the sheen of the morning dew

Every morning, I

watch him, wondering

Why he would force that dark forest

into such meticulous

rows upon on his head

Unnaturally

Why he must go to such lengths

but for his dyed locks

He tells me he must maintain

a semblance of beauty

Ephemeral

But are we defined by the style of our hair, the perfume we wear?

He is still admiring his reflection

as Narcissus met his demise

Finally, he turns from the vanity, makes to leave

Behind him

Blind to him

I cannot help but notice that

Already

a strand has

broken free