In the image of your reflection,
we’d find shattered mirror pieces —
glass poking out the frame’s tension.
Rushing to clear the mess I’d nicked my finger in.
.
Blood flowing on marble floors —
startled, dazed, a bit unsure.
Its presence ricocheting like a gunshot, point-blank;
dreams crumbling, jolting us all awake.
.
Throbbing pulsations remind me
of its existence —
lies shattering the world once created.
Beautiful illusions leading one to quietly wonder,
“What was real? What was fake?”
.
Did I mistrust my judgment?
Was my intuition offline?
Yes — I’m God’s child, emboldened with the divine —
yet divinity became stripped bare in deceit;
half-truths, manipulations, and betrayal all meet.
.
Cowardice is one’s own personal hell.
Frozen in time and space, inaction becomes a choice itself.
Small internal voices whisper, “What’s wrong with me?”
Shame becoming an insidious, contagious disease.
.
In the fractal pieces, we witness a thousand reflections —
one face here, another there — infinite ways of deception.
Mirrors culminating truth that can hardly hide,
showing the fragility of the Self inside.
.
Time passes,
and the finger generates skin cells to mend
all the pieces the mirror tried to end,
scars remaining as a lesson of the horrors when
lies become the identity we live in.
Genuinely Jannah 