Each Awry, a poem

Each Awry

A succession of mirrors, each a tad awry 
from the next, throw their reflections into me.
Memory mixes poorly with passion; love becomes
some stock image we painted on the past, assuring
its existence, telling ourselves its truth once danced
here, along these roads of tomorrow. Have you followed?

Ah, our roads. They find themselves in morning fogs
and fogged mirrors where we seek our faces, forgotten
overnight. I wipe the obscure image away,
hoping to find one more pleasing to the world.
Which do you remember? It will be as true
and as false as all the others, each awry.

Stephen Brooke ©2025