The Trial of the Self
I kneel before the silence I have made,
A room of broken whispers, debts unpaid.
The soul I locked away still strikes the bars,
Its voice a hymn beneath extinguished stars.
I carved my name in wounds too small to show,
Yet watched them grow wherever I would go.
I punished breath for faltering in the night,
I cursed my hands for trembling out of sight.
Forgive me, shadow, for the wars I fed,
For every cruel word spoken in my head.
The mirror holds a trial I cannot flee,
A restless judge who knows the worst of me.
If mercy lives, it lingers out of sight,
A dying ember waiting through the night.
And if it speaks, its voice is faint and low,
Yet still it calls the self I used to know.
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