How ticks the ebony clock,
With its incessant back and forth?
There is no harmony in me,
The mirror tells me so itself.
Blank,
So blank,
The cold pale reflection of the nothing I embody.
I have found that its only when I smash the mirror that the real me appears.
Among the trickles of blood from my hand,
And the tens of glistening shards.
I see myself
Every me.
Not distortion,
The portion of me that can be seen.
I see every me that ever was reflecting on the floor.
Only by twisting and breaking the false self,
Can the real self be absolved.