In the mirror, I am a ghost,
a puppet of the world's illusions,
its expectations heavy as chains,
strings long since frayed by the violence of my mind.

Inside, I am a graveyard,
the dead whispering the things I cannot say.
Tears hidden behind smiles that crack like old paint.

The court of fools calls to me,
eyes blind to the burden I carry.
I play the jester for them,

but if death came tonight,
I would take his hand,
and breathe a sigh of relief.