O heed me now, and turn thy gaze
From silvered glass and polished face,
For not all mirrors meekly show
The truths that mortal eyes may know.
There hangs within the quiet hall
A slender frame, both pale and tall,
Its surface smooth, its edges worn—
A thing that’s watched far longer than born.
By day it serves as others do,
Reflecting form both false and true,
Yet something lingers, faint, unkind,
Just past the reach of common mind.
For glance too long, or stare too deep,
And it may stir from feigned sleep—
A subtle shift, a breath misplaced,
A shadow not your own… but faced.
At first, you’ll doubt what you have seen,
Dismiss the tremor, call it dream,
And laugh it off with nervous grace—
Until it does not match your face.
Your smile will falter—yet remain,
Too slow to fade, too wrong, too plain.
Your eyes will blink—but not in kind,
As though the glass has lagged behind.
Pray, step away—do not return.
There are some things you should not learn.
For every glance you dare to steal,
It takes far more than it reveals.
It studies you in patient art—
The tilt of head, the beating heart,
The way your lips begin to part
Before you even think to start.
And when it knows you, through and through,
It shall attempt… to mirror you.
Not as a trick of light or frame—
But something far more still… and same.
One night, when candles gutter low,
And shadows writhe in silent woe,
You’ll pass the glass and idly see—
It does not need you there to be.
It moves alone.
It breathes—if breath
Can dwell in things untouched by death.
It turns its head to where you stand,
Though you have made no such command.
And worst of all—
It smiles first.
So shatter it, you might then plead,
Reduce it down to shards with speed—
But broken glass remembers still,
Each fragment holding thought and will.
A hundred eyes, a hundred lies,
Still watching where your image dies.
And when at last no frame remains,
No silvered truth, no binding chains—
You’ll find, too late, what you became:
A borrowed face.
A hollow name.
And somewhere, in a place unknown,
The mirror walks—
…no longer alone.
May 28
May 28, 2026 at 12:48 PM UTC
O heed me now, and turn thy gaze
From silvered glass and polished face,
For not all mirrors meekly show
The truths that mortal eyes may know.
There hangs within the quiet hall
A slender frame, both pale and tall,
Its surface smooth, its edges worn—
A thing that’s watched far longer than born.
By day it serves as others do,
Reflecting form both false and true,
Yet something lingers, faint, unkind,
Just past the reach of common mind.
For glance too long, or stare too deep,
And it may stir from feigned sleep—
A subtle shift, a breath misplaced,
A shadow not your own… but faced.
At first, you’ll doubt what you have seen,
Dismiss the tremor, call it dream,
And laugh it off with nervous grace—
Until it does not match your face.
Your smile will falter—yet remain,
Too slow to fade, too wrong, too plain.
Your eyes will blink—but not in kind,
As though the glass has lagged behind.
Pray, step away—do not return.
There are some things you should not learn.
For every glance you dare to steal,
It takes far more than it reveals.
It studies you in patient art—
The tilt of head, the beating heart,
The way your lips begin to part
Before you even think to start.
And when it knows you, through and through,
It shall attempt… to mirror you.
Not as a trick of light or frame—
But something far more still… and same.
One night, when candles gutter low,
And shadows writhe in silent woe,
You’ll pass the glass and idly see—
It does not need you there to be.
It moves alone.
It breathes—if breath
Can dwell in things untouched by death.
It turns its head to where you stand,
Though you have made no such command.
And worst of all—
It smiles first.
So shatter it, you might then plead,
Reduce it down to shards with speed—
But broken glass remembers still,
Each fragment holding thought and will.
A hundred eyes, a hundred lies,
Still watching where your image dies.
And when at last no frame remains,
No silvered truth, no binding chains—
You’ll find, too late, what you became:
A borrowed face.
A hollow name.
And somewhere, in a place unknown,
The mirror walks—
…no longer alone.
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