Impressionist Reflection

Upon inspection,
What do you call an impressionist’s reflection?
A copy of copies, imitation, descension?
Or nameless, faceless introspection?
Do you find a timeless, righteous lesson
Ignoring appearances, but paying attention
To what it means for one to mention
You by name, not recognized by face
Instead by choices, your chosen place
Among your race instead of the space
That lies in front of this brilliant brain?
Do you wonder if all your pain
Is caused by this, vain, love or hate
Of the mirror’s mural from which no escape
Can find you far enough away?