Awash in Ripples

My reflection,
a stranger,
yet familiar,
a trusted friend,
my most intimate enemy.

Here he is again
arms folded left over right
in symbolic ink,
like two snakes entangled.
He stands below staring up,
at the edge of a quiet lake.

What is he doing here, my reflection, ruining my Sunday?

Always watching,
always contemplating,
this figure staring back at me,
like a judge at a pageant?
like God at judgment…

He wants to show me all the reasons I‘ve failed;
all the chips, cracks, and creases,
all along my crumbling foundation
built on selfish silt.

He wants to change me into the ideal,
whatever that is anyways.
I try not to care…

His beard?
It’s not mine
and it’s not Jesus,
just the mask of another lazy man
I suppose.

I certainly don’t feel as old as this reflection
I don’t think I was meant to.
I liked being ten better.
I could sleep then…
except on Christmas Eve.

A pebble skips across shores and disappears into the shallows,
along with my reflection in the ripples that I made.