The Looking Glass

The eyes in the sketchook-
Are they not the eyes on the printed page,
In which I have studied so carefully,
The flakes of my skin bushing off
With the dust of the ink?

Those eyes are hollow and heavy lidded,
Sinking into their sockets.
The eyes of an fabled ancient hero,
Stern pupils, channeling souls,
Seeking lost aspirations.

Did a bit of me fall into the eyes
In the careless way that
So.
Many.
artists.
Do?
And in their shape,
The blurred graphite lines,
Why do I see fear?
There is no fear in the looking glass.

Is that drawing a better refection
Than a glass frosted with a sheen of dust
Grasping the edges
Of my being/

But no,
It's not fear.

It's regret.

Or.
maybe.
Both.