Faces gone, black eyes burnin’ bright
– The Rising.The Boss. Springsteen. Who else.
Rear view mirror.
Mirror, mirror what do you see?
What you wanted to see?
What you wanted to be?
Who you wanted?
Look back in anger, at the smoke, the terror, the closed doors, the falling buildings, the smell, the screams, the end?
Then, stop looking, at the reflections.
Smash the mirror, and to hell
with, seven years of bad luck.
There, is after all, only the road.
Always, the road.
writing 101 | poetry | two | reflections | prompt by Melinda Kucsera