Looking, not seeing

looking through the frosted glass

hoping for the reflection he knows will pass

not seeing, though looking

at the looking glass.

enters despair,

am I blind?… his thoughts he hears,

alas he looks again and again, then

upon shouting, he gathers his pain

and so the frost from his shout did melt

the mirrored pane.

while looking he saw his reflective hell

that experience he wish to quell.

soon upon his shoulder lay

a tiny mist with golden rays

 imagination so intense

a golden wand did span an arc

and soon his looking

balanced his art.

the mirror his heart

the reflection his hurt

the mist his will

the looking his path

all in rising from a broken past.