The Mirror that Trembled

He stood before the glass unlit,
Where shadows clung but did not flinch.
His eyes were knives—each glance a split
Across the self, he could not pinch.

The mirror did not lie, nor speak,
It only showed what he had made:
A man of ash, a mouth too weak
To name the fire, he once obeyed.

Hatred was simple—sharp, defined,
A pyre with purpose, rage with aim.
But now the edges had declined,
And all that burned forgot its name.

He reached to touch the fractured face,
But found the glass began to shake.
Not from his hand, nor time, nor place—
But from himself, he could not fake.

They watched him from the trembling pane,
Each version failed, each echo lost.
And in their eyes, no wrath remained—
Just fear, recursive, cold, embossed.

He whispered truths he once denied,
But mirrors do not grant reprieve.
They only show what hate supplied —
And what remains when hate must leave.

So now he stands, no longer whole,
Not shattered—just afraid to see
That hatred was the mask he stole,
And fear the face beneath the plea.