Scattered pieces strewn the floor,
Bad luck follows two and four score.
Manifold reflections cover tiled spaces,
Each and every one shows guilty faces.
A looking glass can't see the demons we possess,
We can only exorcise in what we will confess.
Quicksilver is but a taint upon spangled glass,
Guilt unfolds from sins we amass.
A mind gravitates to see only the bad,
Often wishing for things we've never had.
Shards are only pieces scattered,
Remnants of reflections never mattered.