Has the time arrived? Is it here?
Must I at last believe the mirror?
Must I accept, must I confront my fear
that my reflection is no ghastly error?
Gazing from the cave where my soul clings
I see past shadowy nose the lizard folds
that used to be my burnished satin skin –
I can’t deny that I am getting old.
I hardly need a mirror made of glass
to tell me the reality, and why
I don’t meet ardent glances as I pass
and I’m invisible to passers-by.
But let the passers-by keep passing by –
my beauty is created in my lover’s eye.
Janice Windle
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/growing-pains-in-the-eye-of-the-beholder/
