I stand before the mirror’s face,
A fragile world of polished glass.
Yet every glance betrays a trace
Of all the wounds that time amass.

The cracks run deep, though faint they seem,
Each line a tale of battles fought.
Some born of life, some born of dream,
Yet all reflect the pain I’ve sought.

The surface lies, the truth concealed,
For mirrors only catch the skin.
But scars beneath are not revealed—
The ones that tear the soul within.

I see a stranger staring back,
Their eyes a map of grief and doubt.
The cracks have formed a web of lack,
A world that’s breaking...