Behind the Glass

My head began its dull, slow beat,

a drum inside a hollow space.

I sought a cure, a small retreat,

behind the mirror's silver face.

The cabinet swung, a dusty shelf,

a history of little ills.

An ancient, tiny, fading self,

among the forgotten, yellowed pills.

The antacids, from years ago,

a different apartment, different pain.

A hopeful bottle, white as snow,

through which I'd poured my silent rain.

It caught the light, that expired thing,

a relic from a former plea.

What comfort could such objects bring?

Just ghosts of what I used to be.