Reflections In A Mirror
T Tom Billsborough
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Hardly one song survives my cold embrace.
I am my mirror which studies every flaw,
Each superfluous line, the ponderous flesh,
Needing to be excised.
As if my mirror opposite should wish to airbrush out
The smooth momentum from my music.
Oh, how I hate my Torquemada self
That tortures me as I compose my verse,
Reducing me to be a stuttering wreck,
And thus withhold the truth
Of what I feel and which my images express!
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