I do not believe in the cheap trick and I would not say but that it needs to be said: far more unsettling than the predictable end is the reflection of us as we live.
The mirror woes and
the mirror waves,
present
unsettled constitution
in sedentary haze.
Poor boy!
Poor us for living.
That he might know
pain and pain alike,
and that hate is forgiven.
In every moment a
reflection.
In each a rattled nerve
less sense, scant affection.
Poor life!
Without meaning nor worthy lament.
Grant that we might blanche,
not persist and persist;
yet from birth defiling only innocence.
Philessatry 