A lone bookshelf
placed against a wall
facing the wardrobe mirror
A nonchalance peerless,
an agony beyond its many shelves,
bothers it incessant
Not the hues the mirror hides
behind its transparent sly
Nor the reflection of itself
interests the bookshelf
The wisdom waiting in volumes
relegated to an unread fate
behind some silly souvenir
picked up on the streets of Madrid last summer
The names on the book-spines
and those telling their faces
Not one is spared the mockery
of being reflected in reverse
in the apathic mirror
that couldn't care less
about the world it reflects
or the wisdom it misses
And that exactly is what
bothers the most
a lone bookshelf
placed against a wall
facing the wardrobe mirror
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