The horizon calls me home
I walk alone to it, silent.
My feet swollen yet stubborn
Take me true to my home.
Am I a knight of penance, or -
A pawn for ill fates to vent?
I'll never know, I know, but still
I walk to that light - my end.

My father was a farmer.
He sowed the seeds of dreams
He could never have in me.
He cared for them, and me,
But more for me, I knew.

He waited for the harvest
That one day he would
Watch me reap, with pride;
Pleased that he waited,
Pleased that he cared for them
And for me, but more for me.

He would watch
That crop of dreams heap.
I watched today,
And only saw my father weep.

I am scared of the mirror.
It hung in my bedroom,
And boomingly it loomed
and laughed at me.

It didn't show me imperfections.
It never showed a reflection at all.
Instead it showed a fiction.

The fiction was perfect.
It was colored, and detailed,
And knew long words,
And had deep thoughts.

The mirror laughed at it.
I asked why, I won't cry, I said.
But why do you care, it asked,
and why would you stare.

The fiction stared back.
It didn't care back.
This wasn't fair, I bared
My teeth and growled
At it, just so it fears me.

I wonder if it sees me at all.
There was just the mirror.
And the laughter. The fiction
Was perfect, and quite dead.

Outrage, it's a curious thing.
How faux furious voice brings
Spurious poise to previous
noise; Hoist the flag of lies high,
Cos boys will be boys right?

She sits dignified, polite
With right on her side, but
The light shines poor on her
Recurring their eyes concur
How this fight must confer
Nothing on her but a slight.

What was left unspoken
Then became our scars.
What was blest and spoken
Now a memorable farce.

Burning skies at sunset lay;
With embers golden hid from me.
Her silhouette stood in the way
A far more perfect sight to see.

The world feels broken;
What mattered, now does not.
The people have spoken,
With anger their will fraught.
Many fight heartbroken;
With lies their future wrought.
Yes, the world is broken,
But then, when was it not.