You are the mirror to what is me,
to what few others ever see
I view in you the greatest writer
my mirror ever has reflected.
(That's indisputably true,
because the metaphor is almost new.)
When others peer into you
they see not what I used to be.
Let's keep my youth a secret
between just you and me.

(You are a witness to my error,
who couldn't squeal if you wanted to.
And if you did, I can't imagine why  
you'd care to reveal that in the last stanza 
I used 'me' instead of 'I.')

You are a sight for my sore eyes,
an Adonis in disguise.
It sounds conceited, but I have to say,
I view you now in a strange old way:
The youth I envision I was before old Father Time
first knocked at my door.

We'll use that illusion and keep it in place
for when I brush or shave or wash my face.
It's good for my spirits to see myself young,
on those mornings before coffee, when I feel like dung.