Analysis of Mirrored Red

Rebirth isn’t a breeze-caress
but a ripping, bloody labor of self-love
that grinds the bones of your departed self
into dust easily mixed
with the blood of yesterday.

My golden muse departs for another
more worthy of the love-gift
as the mirror is held outward-facing always
reflecting only the shortcomings of safety
for those Greek ladies carry tragedies

Hither, thither and yon until
the mirror cuts her hands again.
The blood is mine; a vermillion song
crying out in the way of Abel
until again it is hither, thither and yon.

Why does my blood cry out
from this parched ground of ignonimy?
from whence comes sweet succor?
The dogs lick my life from the dirt
and no one notices I am no more.