The Mirror

It was on the 13th revolution of Blueberry Hill
That I’d decided the needle had had enough
I pulled myself from the rocker
Looking like a dangled tangerine peel
Held by invisible fingers
Yanking a knife from the lifeless flesh lump by my feet
I replaced the stylus
It suddenly felt important not to overthink things
As I gripped out for a hoop of key like figures with my spare hand
They glowed upon a carbon peg on the wall
Bent awfully by overuse
Picked and replaced
Slowly I made my way
Convincing head and heart to remain calm
Towards something resembling a lock drawn on the mirror
In a substance bordering on obscene
I had that feeling in my stomach again
Akin to what a spent despot must go through
Down in his bunker
Waiting for a military coup
As shocks of electricity
Poured into the room
The sound of whips cracking
Furiously filled the air
As I positioned key loosely to lock
Or did the lock gravitate towards me?
I heard a loud click
And a purl of smoke rose from the cap of my temple
Accelerating quickly
Into an inverted Niagaran-like cataract
I turned sharply on my heels
To see a silver gas apparate over the pillowed seat
The mirror split
Into shimmering horizontal ribbons
Gently I passed through the rippling vapors
I walked like a blind man attempting to navigate a black hole
With a white stick
As I disappeared
My ears sharpened
And I heard that familiar static
And the replacing of the needle once more…