VIII. The Mirror Behind the Words

The words I speak are polished glass,

reflecting faces as they pass.

They shine, they dazzle, they conceal,

but rarely show what I most feel.

Each syllable a shifting mask,

a surface bright, a hollow task.

The deeper truth avoids the tongue,

it waits in silence, still, unsung.

For silence is the mirror’s core,

a hidden depth, a secret door.

Beneath the echo, faint, restrained,

the soul is raw, the heart unchained.

So hear me not by what I say,

but in the hush that haunts the day.

The truth is born where sound has fled—

a mirror waits behind what’s said.