We have made mirrors
For hundreds of years.
They have hung, unchanging,
as we have passed, scanning
for a stray lock, a rehearsed smile
a piece of food between our teeth,
crow's feet and gray hair.
Honesty reflecting dishonesty,
Disaffected calm reflecting fear.

The mirror still reflects the passing scene,
But is a neglected shadow of her former self. 
Ever honest, and that is her failure.
We look elsewhere for advice,
and secretly despise that friend
who always tells us the truth.
In fashion there are no crow's feet,
In celebrity there are no faults,
no failings we can't manage.

That old analog self, staring back at us,
does not comport with the dream.
The dream comports only
with other dreams, apparently.
Reality is an inconvenience
we must Photoshop, enhance, embellish.
Narcissus bought a GoPro Hero and captures
every adventure.  He only watches Oprah,
and "reality TV", and posts selfies on Facebook.