There's something
about broken mirrors;
they still swallow what's in sight
and let multiplied reflections
dance upon their skin.
They dictate the endlessness
of energetic echoes.
While the moon mumbles
lamentations to winds,
rhythms of rupture
recite within the words.
It's like a dull grumble
of fragmentizing glass,
forking frozen colors
of parchment
and pixels.
Scents of solitude
tinge iridescent ink,
then ostracize luminous liaisons.
The house of union
unravels upon my eyes -
then births into
a pale slick of oil.
(as torn pictures mirror the end)
Adding your comment:
) in this piece, and I also very much like the interspersed alliteration. I'm into alliteration at present and love the challenge of the melding and blending of words.
although it is an awesome title, you cannot steal the suprize and strength of your title and use it within a poem. 
