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Poem

Sometimes I feel, as though I stand,
Trapped in the prison of my own hand.
A mirror within a mirror's gaze,
A labyrinth of eternal haze.

I turn left; I turn right—there is no door,
Only endless echoes of before.
Each step I take is shown and shown,
A thousand copies of the me I've known.

The edges blur, the glass refracts,
A kaleidoscope of sinking facts.
Am I the seeker, or am I the sought?
Fragments of dreams, or shadows of thought?

The walls are whispers, silent and cold,
Reflecting truths, I can't quite hold.
Each reflection knows me more than I,
Yet none can answer my whispered 'why?'

I pound the pane, but the sound just dies,
The maze is a web of my own disguise.
Each pathway bends, each corridor curls,
A hall of mirrors, a world of swirls.

But deep within, there's something bright,
A flicker of flame in infinite night.
Perhaps the escape lies not in the fight,
But in daring to shatter and step into light.

So, I pause, I breathe, and I let it be,
The maze transforms inside of me.
A mirror is only as real as its image pretends to be;
But true freedom begins when I no longer care.

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