In a room with four walls, where light dies like a trapped butterfly
In a room with four walls, where light dies like a trapped butterfly,
stands a mirror, a glass doll, with silver lashes that lie beautifully,
it whispers to me that I am enough, that my shadow dances, that I am not lost,
with sweet words, poisoned honey, telling me I have purpose, that I'm not behind,
that the world hasn't left me so far away, trailing those who float with ease.
I believe, for here, among echoes, faith is the only stone I cling to,
when reality presses down, a leaden sky over my fragile temples,
and the mirror soothes me, like a mother hiding truth beneath fairy tales.
But outside, autumn wind tears away illusions, dried leaves from my soul,
every strange face is a blade that cuts, every glance measures and loses me,
showing me how small I am, how lacking, how torn from life's secret,
which others wear like a cloak of feathers, floating without weight,
while I stumble, without running, without knowing the path to them.
My silence becomes a testimony, a mute cry of helplessness,
and every step is a wound, a map of the distance between me and what I should have
been, what others are, with a grace that seems woven from threads of stars.
Yet I return, like a pilgrim to a broken altar, to my walls,
to the lying mirror, to the whispered prayer: "I am enough, I am sufficient",
though my soul knows, like a deaf bell, that I am only a shadow,
a phantom imagining its breath, a dream pretending to live.
The mirror lies, but its lie is a balm, warmer than truth,
than the world's eyes that weigh me and leave me empty, lacking, forgotten,
than the silences that scream, than the steps that carry me nowhere.
And the game continues, in my room of echoes, under the dead light,
I tell myself again that I am in my place, that the world has a corner for me too,
though I know I deceive myself, that the mirror is just an IV drip of false hope,
keeping me alive until the glass will shatter, shards scattered in the wind,
and only truth will remain, empty, cold, of the non-being that I am.
Copyright ©
Dan Enache
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