In a room where silence softly crept,

A mirror hung, alone it wept.

Silver and trimmed in gold,

Its frame ornate and its surface cold.

Each day, it drank in borrowed light,

Reflected faces, day and night.

A bride in white or a child’s grin

Each life it mimicked from within.

But never once a face its own

No voice to call, no flesh, no bone.

A canvas blank forever still,

Obeying each demanding will

A girl once whispered, “Tell me,

Do I look beautiful to you?”

The mirror showed her flawless skin

Though doubt still carved her from within.

It longed to scream: “You’re more than this!

Your worth’s not sealed by lips you kiss!”

But mirrors cursed with silent grace,

Can only echo what they face.

It watched as others came and went

Theyre tears, theyre pride, theyre discontent.

It knew their pain, their secret scars,

Yet held them all behind glass bars.

A thousand lives it played in part

But none had ever touched its heart

No one paused to truly see

The mirror’s own identity

For in its world, it must comply

No dreams to chase and no voice to cry.

Just polished lies and glassy sheen

And so it hangs in gilded chain,

A symbol of reflected pain.

Of those who live through others’ eyes,

And wear the masks their world supplies.