It's the splinters of trees
trained into shape,
that table where you sit all day.

You meant to stray away from it
but one day
you saw your feet had turned solid,
your hair had become twisted,
and your face was a rock of No Smiling.

Oh, what sadness there is in this day,
as I see you glance at that mirror
and take a small breath.
Your eyes see you are still a person,
and - despite your mindless gaps
and holes in living -
you know that inside
you have always been real.