look at yourself,
through this revolving mirror
without losing balance
as the image becomes clearer.
it looks like our homes are dirty—
places for the unkempt soul—
and like our hands are twitching,
restless for control.
we are reminded not to become our mothers,
because their fates are too melancholy to uphold,
and not to utter a single syllable
of truth which can’t be told.
because what is truth, and what is beauty,
from the dandelion’s point of view?
why, the same as the human’s
in his careless, neutral hue.
beauty is not for our eyes,
truth not for our ears to grasp,
and fate comes much too quickly
when your self is merely light
reflected off a slab of glass.