Self-Image 

Each morning the mirror
mocks and taunts me.
Who is that flesh
that glares back at me
from the cold glass?
Those sombre eyes,
the jowling cheeks
pillared atop drooping shoulders.
Is this reflection
of a not-so-jolly,
jelly-bellied dough boy
wannabe Santa Claus
a true depiction of me? 
In my mind's eye,
mine own eyes closed,
my image differs so
from that which offends me.
In darkened solitude
and in dreams
I am Adonis or Mars.
Hermes rampant I soar,
unfettered by gravity's
sucking grip.
My spirit flies free,
only lightly chained
to this earthbound anchor. 
I am Apollo,
I am Michelangelo's David -
in youth and stature.
Statuesque, sculptured...
wherefrom comes this
image of perfection?
Is it innate or cultural?
It really matters not.
My earthly form must needs
fulfill its destined purpose.
Until I, too, shall
"shuffle off this mortal coil",
I think I'll just avoid mirrors. 

10/24/2001