by Carl Johnson
I saw a face this morning,
A face I might have known.
It sent me a grave warning.
It could have been my own.
A ragged scar, pale white with age,
Ran hard from cheek to chin,
Giving his visage a look of rage,
Like a battle about to begin.
An aura of great mystery
Exuded from his ravaged mien.
I could tell that his history,
Was a warrior’s, that was plain.
The eyes were iceberg blue,
Cold and hard, going blind,
That younger were warm and true,
And whose glance was ever kind.
Hard life had calloused his heart,
Yet tenderness was buried deep
Though he kept himself apart,
He had memories to keep.
Suddenly I froze in terror,
Knowing who that man might be.
I was looking in a mirror.
The face I saw was me.
Like a battle about to begin.
An aura of great mystery
Exuded from his ravaged mien.
I could tell that his history,
Was a warrior’s, that was plain.
The eyes were iceberg blue,
Cold and hard, going blind,
That younger were warm and true,
And whose glance was ever kind.
Hard life had calloused his heart,
Yet tenderness was buried deep
Though he kept himself apart,
He had memories to keep.
Suddenly I froze in terror,
Knowing who that man might be.
I was looking in a mirror.
The face I saw was me.
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