scrying mirrors, my darlings

I can look out through my scrying glass,
look upon the lost ones,
and see the confusion–
i see the mystification in their faces,
mirrors, my darlings.

I can read each one’s thoughts,
each one crying for one,
and one cure for the pain–
elusive only for lack of trying,
mirrors, my darlings.

How i love the poor,
i love the gentle wisdom,
yet rich or poor the same longing hides in my friend’s heart–
the joy of being,
the joy of knowledge,
the joy of understanding;
all beloved’s gifts already given,
yet on and on and on awaiting reception,
mirrors, my darlings.