The image is foggy and indistinct,
Sprinkled with specks of solitude
And layers of weeping dust.
Reflecting vapory memories of
Stories untold, secrets unspoken
And hearts that throbbed with vigor.
This mirror is as old as the wind
That blows across those streets
Where men once strode so proudly.
The dust it carries are remnants of
The decaying graves and the tottering
Tombs of those who were triumphant.
There are those who walk past
With eyes that stare blindly ahead
And fail to see the path laid before them.
Then there are those that pause to stare
Unflinchingly at the facsimile of their lives
Clearly displayed in their dusty image.
With lowered gazes and humbled strides
They walk away with uneasy eyes
And a shimmering, sardonic smile.