They come now robed in mirrors
That are polished to a sheen,
Doused in smoke
And smeared with gasoline.
Each mirrored shard reflecting dreams
Of chances lost and what may have been.
Their own are nowhere to be found,
Veiled and hidden,
Safe and sound.
But,
Pry back those mirrored shards
And beware what you may see,
The forms of  frail men
Disfigured and diseased.
Their minds had long since set them free
From the warring of beasts
And the powers that be.
And,
Yet it holds them fast,
Mind tethered and lashed
As a sail rigged tight
And firm to mast.
At last!
Their mirrors stare back.
With all the veracity of history
The shame, the pride,
Whatever it is they lack.
Whatever it is they say they need.
They say they need,
And so then they believe.
No matter the hypocrisy...

I say they,
Perhaps I mean me.