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Introspection

The rope around my neck was my reflection, Like a noose tied by ghostly hands, Cast back at me by each shard of the mirror. Shattering the glass hadn't hidden anything, Nor had it freed the mnemonic slaves within. Instead, countless eyes peered back at me, Stained with their own shades of recollection. Eyes that wept in their lament and blazed in their scorn, Dulled in their contrition and hollowed out in their hopelessness, Narrowed in judgement and withheld their pardon. These eyes were my own, And suspended there before them I wondered, Why it was that they hated me. It never occurred to me, As I swayed there in their company, That I hated them, too.
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Oizys

I had never felt so utterly empty, And what a pity emptiness and numbness were not twins, For still there rose in me that rancid overture, Birthing a chorus of inadequacy that filled my hollow being. Chanting in earnest of desire and its price, Giving rise to a howling aria in praise of failure. The wolves of worthlessness and fury dwelling therein, Lusting for that sanguine objective their fangs might accomplish, The coda of their mutually torn throats yielding no satiety, As they retreat from their own pooling futility. But war is their nature, and war would they wage again, When the heart falters and tears flee captivity, The gnashing of teeth shall be apotheosis.
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