Poems and Prose #119 - Armature

The mirror before me
reflects back a deep abyss,
crafted by a fractal spiral
that is and is and is again,
so distant from the starting point
that distortion is amiss.

I grit my teeth and squint,
pounding the glass sheet
  with my fist,
while my shaky lip curls up
into a hardly-practiced grin,
a brief burst of laughter
a rare instance, briefly,
  of something that exists
  only as a precursor to the
    barest, slightest glimpse
    into a cluster of
    long-distorted blips
    that, in some eons-ago,
    contorted myth,
    was a far-off reflection
    of dim, dim glints
    of something
      once heralded
        by sentience
          as some
            concocted
              notion known
                as bliss.