Rusted Mirrors

Rusted mirrors

are stones polished into funhouses

of smoke and silver

slivers of words

we were never meant to note,

markers on trails heavily rutted

with the lost footprints of those

blindfolded before us.

Yet we forge on,

valiant in our quest

for anything that swears

to soothe our singes,

for something to balm,

unseen waters over the fires

of our veins' burning maps,

synapses, vessels,

iridescent threads that connect us

with the helm of God.

We call to him

from behind the charlatan’s door

because she tells us it works

if we pay her.

So we patiently knock

at her poorly lit back door,

hoping no one sees us,

poor inside our souls

but not inside our wallets.