Beneath the laughter’s practiced gleam,

there hums a quiet, splintered dream—

a trembling pulse behind the glass,

where every thought must gently pass.

We stitch our smiles with borrowed thread,

pretend the cracks are mended, fed;

but under silk and sunlight’s glaze,

the mind drifts off in shadowed haze.

Each tender truth we dare to keep

lies restless, murmuring in sleep;

a single word, a fleeting tear—

and all our certainties disappear.

The world, so polished, gleams and spins,

but grief still lingers in our skins;

we dance on mirrors, thin as breath,

pretending not to know of death.

Oh fragile fire, so bright, so brief—

the heart’s a page, the soul a leaf;

and when the wind lifts all disguise,

we see the ache behind the eyes.

Beneath the veil, beneath the fear—

we’re glass, not gods, just fragile, near.

And still we smile, and still we stay—

so human in our soft decay.