There is a whistling of the wind,
Dancing in time with tongue and
Tattered cheek as window panes
Are glazed over with tired eyes
Staring back into the mirror.
Creaking wheels and tables
Turn swiftly around corners,
Brazen edges that reflect a
Steady hand drawing shapes
Into the frosted pavement.
The world outside is silent,
Hollow and still like the
Backstreets of some winter
Snowfall on a late evening.
Within those glass illusions,
Your eyes are as paper-thin
And pale as the pages I write on,
Reflecting my own quiet rain in
A curtain-calling of solemn peace.