Their are so many mirrors in the world,
Reflecting the same images over and over again,
The same tired, old images,
And yet these old images,
Burned into the minds of every person,
Are powerful beyond belief.
Where there are no mirrors,
There are windows.
Wistful, watchful, windows,
They see the ever-changing landscape,
The Earth constantly going through revisions,
But no power is to be held by dreamers.
So fragile are these mirrors and windows,
A skip of a stone could change them forever,
And perhaps that's exactly what they need,
Mirrors would become a new sort of window,
And windows could finally let the wind in,
Spreading what needs to be heard.
A blanket of glass would cover the ground,
Long-lost ideas and times of the past,
Warped into a nonsensical timeline,
Would the wind spread these to?
Sharp, sickly thoughts,
Piercing the consciousness of every onlooker.
So there will always be mirrors and windows,
Begging to be broken,
Smashed into Oblivion,
But such freedom is costly,
So the windows still watch,
And the mirrors do not.
Interlaced in perpetual agony.