Whisper of the Mirror
In the breadth of madness,
A silhouette twisted by illusion,
Flows the molten stream of evil,
Into the chasms of his gray dreams.
The rebellions of flesh, heavy with indolence,
And the barrenness of bleak thoughts,
Scratch at the dignity that follows sin.
The insanity of a mirage,
Rising from the depths of the soul's cellar,
Unleashes its poisonous whip,
And whispers, again and again—
You are sinking;
You are sinking.
And the threads of survival,
Somewhere beneath the roots of belief,
Are shrouded in moss.
Ah,
You are sinking,
And the reflection inside the mirror
Bears witness to a cold, bleak corpse,
With hands long past their trial.
I wander slowly,
Let the mirror whisper my name,
yet the reflection, it seems,
Has been possessed by another voice for years—
A voice that abandoned me
In a place amongst decaying thoughts,
Fighting for a belief
That was never truly mine.
And now, I hear it,
Behind leaden coughs,
And smell it,
Amid the fragrance of dried flowers.
And I see it
In a spring
That has long since spat
On the balance of the seasons.
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