A Chorus of Mirrors #poetry

The Birth of Sameness

I was a child when I first noticed the pattern.
The rows of houses with identical roofs,
the uniforms stitched from the same thread,
the voices echoing the same rehearsed lines.

I asked my mother why no one danced
in colors that did not match the sky.
She smiled, pressed a finger to my lips,
and whispered:
"We are safest in the river that flows together."

So, I became the water.
I learned the script,
folded my edges,
tucked away the untamed pieces.

I walked in step,
laughed when they laughed,
nodded when they nodded.
And for a time,
it felt like peace.

But in my dreams,
I saw a world where shadows
were not afraid to break formation,
where silence did not weigh
like an unanswered question.

I woke up gasping.
And the world outside
remained unchanged.

A City That Forgot Its Name

You wake up in a city
where every face is a variation of your own.
Not exact, but close enough
that you stop noticing.

The streets hum with the same conversations,
recycled and stripped of sharp edges.
The walls whisper stories
written in disappearing ink.

You move through the day like everyone else,
performing the quiet ballet of belonging.
You smile at the right moments,
speak in a tone that does not disrupt,
exist in a way that does not demand attention.

But then—
a girl in a red coat steps onto the train.
A mistake in the canvas.
An error in the equation.

Heads turn.
Eyes narrow.
The air shifts.

For a moment, you wonder
what it would be like
to wear something
that does not blend.

The thought lingers.
It does not belong.
Neither do you.

The Future of Forgotten Names

One day, the world will erase its own fingerprints.
Every building will stand identical,
every sky a copy of yesterday’s sky.

They will wake up to a morning
that feels like last week,
last month, last year.

They will look at each other
and see nothing worth remembering.
No sharp corners, no wild laughter,
no defiance carved into the bones of time.

Someone will try to rebel.
They will write a poem in a language
that has not been spoken in years.
They will wear yellow in a city of gray.

The system will not punish them.
It will not need to.
It will simply absorb them,
reshape them,
soften their edges until
they forget they were ever different.

And the world will continue.
Silent. Seamless.
Unbroken.

A Question That No One Asks

When everything is the same,
no one stands out.

When no one stands out,
who do you become?

Are you the voice that rises?
The hand that paints in colors no one recognizes?
The one who steps out of line
knowing the price?

Or do you dissolve into the pattern,
smoothing out the wrinkles,
becoming the silence
that keeps the world still?

Somewhere, a child presses their palms to the mirror,
wondering if they are real.

Somewhere, a city breathes in unison,
never once asking why.

Somewhere, the future waits,
but no one turns to meet it.

Because when everything is the same,
no one remembers how to change.

#Poetry #Conformity #Identity #Society #Sameness #Individuality #Existentialism #PoeticExpression #TimeAndMemory #BreakingTheMold