Order

Can you hear the screams from within the glass mirror,
grown battered and scratched from the lesions of our world?
Its once gloss, iridescent coating calls your name
through the now grey and murky appearance
to view your world in the opaque shapes it presents.

Our chaotic cries tackle it, trying to break it down
because it want to hold onto the neck you have shown.
Yet, the mirror protected you. The convex battle scars
show the battle between ideology and reality.

Some of it has grown black from the scabs left behind
from the claws of the inner beast. Dried blood trickles
down the bumps like tears begging for release.
The rusty scent of blood seeps through.
Our monsters struggle to leave.

And there you stand, staring into the mirror.
Into yourself.
But all you can see are the shadows of your eyes
praying for the survival of your order.