Paint a mask of pigments on your canvassed face in layered coats,
But don’t forget that there are gaping holes through which your eyes still show.
O, those glassy-paneled portholes to the soul.
You know, the mirror recollects one of its own.
An opaque face is tough to shake once you know
A shadow just dissipates in its clone.
Rationale is vital to the buoyant mind encased in stone.
For when does the display case, not the artifact, become the show?
O, the gawking heads will reaffirm the joke:
It’s fauxlosophy that makes your image grow.
And when you clown our lips curl down in sorrow.
The mirror of nature’s a green window.