You know pain only when you feel it,
Backhanding the aspirin as you’d rather deal it;
There’s a numbness in your sadness—
And a dumbness in your madness—
Wherein it’s lost, the opportunity for introspection.
It would nonetheless be a rayless reflection,
Whereby every whimsy of the worthy world
Is made so desperately, darkly dimmer;
For, upon that glossy, gladless glimmer,
You would esteem none above yourself the dearer.
It is for you, my mournfully misled lady,
That magic made the mirror.