Man in the Mirror

Had they all looked at themselves, they would have seen the radiant quartz reflect their own being in times of great need. But blind they remain, to a thing they thought made of dreams and highlands. The mirrors hurting their fragile eyes, and so I could only try and smear the medicine, to no avail.

The music strummed was serene, puncturing my ears. And I could feel more deaf as it played, no matter how beautiful it was, after which the gun was suddenly so seductive, leaving burned powder traces on my fingers and the shrapnel cutting my face to bleed and see flowing rivers more red than red is.

Her lips, how could they exist after my embrace. I feel their adamantine skulls against my own, to which how could I crack and still remain the hunter I promised all to be. How could I find the purpose after seeping purpose. How can I climb towers made of silk and lips and turrets made of eyes and gleaming suns and suns and suns. Shunned, after which I find my hands tiring, and my legs collapsing, and my voice shaking, and so everything falls apart, after a mountain worth of mending and time elapsing. Oh, had I only found comfort for it to wither and my face then to slither.

I remain the man in the mirror, in a bus of strangers surrounded by songs of escaping. I remain, the man in the mirror, asking brother glass why won’t he shatter. Brother glass, my poignant eyes are worthless, my pungent voice expresses nothingness, my sleight of hand can only slip. Glass brother, you shatter and I shatter, then we can only matter and our shards can dance and be free with the ploughing winds, escaping together.

Man in the mirror, it is only me.

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