“reflection of an old person as compared to something found in an antique shop”

In a quiet shop beneath a cracked tin roof,  
Where motes of dust in golden sunlight roam,  
An ancient wardrobe leans with creaking proof  
Of years that dressed and undressed every home.  
Its mirror ripples silver, warped with time,  
And smiles with all the faces it has known—  
The hopeful bride, a child smeared with grime,  
And hands, like mine, now weathered to the bone.

I peer into the glass, my careful gaze  
Crossed faintly by a scratch, a faint divide.  
The years have drawn their art in subtle haze,  
Yet something deeper flickers just inside:  
The memory of laughter, scalds of loss,  
Reflected in the glass and, too, my eyes—  
Remarkably alike, both marked by moss  
Of storied decades time cannot disguise.

Within each dent, each line, the stories hide—  
Whispered, cherished, sorrowed, worn but prized.  
The wardrobe and the soul I hold with pride,  
Both valued more for all they've realized.  
So let the shiny new pass swiftly by;  
I'll keep my company with mirrors wise,  
For what is left when youth and polish die  
Is gleam, not of the surface, but the skies.

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