Monotony

Monotony is a faceless prison ever sinking into the drying concrete of a square-shaped tomb, sitting geometrically perfect in an unending row of tombstones by the same cut, size, and stone, the grass finely-manicured by a caretaker who perfects the lawn from his own square prison, sinking steadily into the ground. 

Inside the cell are all mirror walls, 

stretching to eternity and screaming back at you so continuously that the line between reality and reflection becomes mangled and spliced. 

If you try to break the mirror your knuckles will become broken, bleeding, and pierced with hundreds of fragments of glass,

and by the time you pull them all out 

the mirror has fully mended itself, 

ridden of any imperfection. 

You stare back into the mirrored void which goes blue and then green and then dark. 

Maddening, spinning darkness that only continually approaches you faster, swimming through the layers and layers of reality.

Are the walls closing in around you or is your perception of light just fading away?

You look upwards but there is no sky, only wall, lifetimes of your reflection staring back at you blankly, 

backdropped by the quickening blackness, seething through the second dimension into yours,

or maybe yours is the second dimension. 

How are you even to know whether this version of yourself is the real one?