Deep within a room of shadows, where the candlelight would quiver,
Stood a frame of polished walnut, making every spirit shiver,
There I faced the frozen surface, praying for a grander vision,
Seeking out a lost precision, hoping for a souls elision,
Searching for a grace internal, hidden from the world's derision,
By the cold and silent Mirror.

Staring at the glassen portal, tracing lines of weary sorrow,
Wishing for a face of marble, borrowed from a bright tomorrow,
Yet the glass remained a traitor, cold and sharp and uninviting,
Every jagged flaw igniting, every secret shame requiting,
While the man within the silver, all my silent prayers was slighting,
Watching from the cruel Mirror.

"Surely," cried I, "there is beauty, deep beneath this fleshly curtain!
Something radiant and holy, of this much I must be certain!"
But the eyes that met my pleading were as hollow as the floor,
Dull and empty to the core, like a long-forgotten lore,
Dragging down my weary spirit to the dark and dusty floor,
Broken by this heartless Mirror.

How I yearned to see the fire, or the gold of inner spirit,
Calling to the glass for mercy, though I knew it could not hear it.
For the skin was but a vessel, marred by time and human failing,
Leaving all my senses wailing, as my inner light was paling,
Against the hard, reflective surface, where my vanity was nailing,
Lies upon this wicked Mirror.

And the image never flinches, never alters, never softens,
Like the lids of heavy caskets or the wood of narrow coffins,
Though I feel a treasure in me, trapped beneath a shell of clay,
Still the mirror turns away, throughout the night and through the day,
Showing only what is lying, showing only what must stay:
Only thisthis mocking Mirror.

Penned by my hand on the 2nd of Miraman, in the year 997 AF.