The mirror on the wall is old and brown
he bought it from the antiques shop down town
he didn’t know the power it possessed
it’s just a gift for his loving wife Bess.
It’s rather large she thought, where shall it go
the lounge he thought, study, she told him so
over the mantle-piece where the flames dance
to give the room an air of ambiance.
He looked into the glass one stormy night
a figure stood behind, oh what a fright
its face distorted as if in torment
its eyes as black as night, it’s clothes all rent.
It laid its deathly hand upon his neck
a grip of iron, one mighty squeeze did break
he fell upon the floor in a dead heap
he’s trapped in the mirror, its soul set free.
She could not find her man he is not there
In all the house there’s not a single stir
she looked into the mirror on the wall
and saw him there and thought he’d had a fall.
But when she turned to help him off the floor
she did not see his body there no more
she once more gazed into the mirror there
again, the mirror held him in its glare.
She felt a force upon her neck, a hand
and now she lies in there beside her man
she saw him trapped in glass for evermore
and now there’s two of them, or maybe more.
© D Marsden 2016
Dave's blog 