At midlife, a mirror grows & speaks
Its tongue made of fog, its voice a bell
We count regrets like coins in sleep
The brilliance fades, & that’s the spell

Through seasons sewn in wax & glass
We walk the halls of things undone
A puppet asks if choice is real
The strings, invisible, weigh a ton

“How did I get here?” echoes the ground
A question stitched into our feet
The compass spins; no needle true
And even silence tastes of meat

Fate gropes blindly with stitched-shut eyes
A gardener planting bones in sand
Some follow gods, or think they do
While others kneel to an empty hand

We drift like paper in a furnace breeze
No mast, no map, no thread to catch
And in the end, the wind decides
We speak our names, then turn to ash