The Reflective Mirror

Each word I write remakes my face—

a thousand selves in shifting glass.

The page becomes a mirrored place

where every truth must learn to pass.

I paint in ink what cannot speak,

disguise my heart in borrowed hue.

Each line a veil, both strong and weak,

revealing more than I intend to.

The pen performs its soft deceit,

a dancer masked in light and shade.

It traces grief in gold and sleet,

and hides the hurt from which it’s made.

I spill what silence will not keep—

its tethered ghosts, its veiled refrain.

To write is half to wound, half weep,

to lose, to find, to hide again.

The mirror shifts; the image bends—

the self refracts in silver’s gleam.

I chase my shadow through the lens,

awake inside another’s dream.

For every truth the line unveils,

another waits beneath the skin.

The poet’s mask, like moonlight, pales—

yet in its glow, the soul begins.