Smoking Room

                                            There is a great mirror; a polished surface with spots of age.
                       Within a gilded frame of baroque carvings

                                        Ceiling to floor

                                        In its depths there is a chair. A weary, green affair
                                Deep wood…

In a chair sits a young woman.
A faded, young woman
            Blonde is a tired colour.
                    Fretting locks sigh.

Eyes lock on to eyes lock on to eyes lock on to eyes.
                            A mirror
        Sharp lies

A lock is broken as she looks down into her cupped hands. Cupped hands by her mouth;
she lights a cigarette.
                                   There is a glow.
                                                                    The lock interlocks again.

Blue smoke curls, then sprays.
A silent shout, up.
            A cut profile,
Held.

                                                    Sucking, inhaling
                                                    The poison of life.

                                                Voiceless, silent beauty

                                                    A projected image:

                                        Owning the other side of the mirror