The Folly of the Endless Mirror

In the quiet hollow of the self,
where whispers pool like dew on fern fronds,
a figure stands, arms outstretched,
palms cupped to catch the falling wants of others.
Shadows stretch long across the mossy floor,
each one a silhouette demanding light,
and the figure bends, twists,
mirroring back smiles that are not its own.
What fracture forms when every gaze
must be met with yes, with nod, with bloom?
The heart, a fragile reed in wind-whipped marsh,
bows low, then snaps under the weight
of echoes not its making.

Fingers trace the bark of ancient oak,
rough as the truths we sidestep.
You reach for every hand extended,
paint your sky with borrowed colors,
but the canvas cracks,
rivers of unmet longing seep through.
One face turns away, and in its place
another blooms, thorned and insistent.
How the chest tightens,
a storm cloud swelling in the ribcage,
thunder rumbling of hollow victories.
Pleasing the chorus leaves the solo silent,
a voice lost in the gale of approval's roar.

Beneath the canopy, where roots entwine unseen,
the figure pauses, breath caught
on the lip of revelation.
Look down—earthworms churn the soil,
unbothered by the sun's decree,
devouring darkness to birth fertile black.
They please no one, yet the garden rises,
petals unfurl in defiant scarlet.
Why then this fever to cradle every spark?
The mirror multiplies, fractures into infinity,
each shard reflecting another demand,
until the self dissolves
in the shimmer of a thousand borrowed eyes.

Dawn creeps over the ridge,
mist rising from the river's bend like forgotten prayers.
The figure steps into the current,
water cold as regret's first kiss.
It pulls at ankles, whispers of release—
let go the hands that clutch,
the voices that clamor for your shape to shift.
In the flow, fragments surface:
a pebble smoothed by ceaseless tumble,
no longer jagged, but ordinary, whole.
What if the flaw lies not in refusal,
but in the chase itself?

Climb now, higher, where pines claw the sky,
needles sharp as unspoken no’s.
From this ledge, the valley unfolds—
a tapestry of striving ants below,
each trail crossing, diverging, lost.
You see it: the ant that veers for every call
circles back to dust,
while the steadfast one carves straight to nectar.
The wind carries no judgment,
only the scent of wild thyme,
reminding that bloom comes
not from pollination by all,
but from roots sunk deep in sovereign soil.

Night falls, and stars puncture the velvet dome.
No longer earthbound, the journey lifts—
through ether, past the moon’s pocked face,
that silent witness to tidal pulls.
Galaxies spiral in indifferent dance,
each arm a billion suns,
pleasing none but their own gravity.
Nebulae birth in fiery hush,
swallow worlds without apology.
What hubris to think your light
must warm every wandering eye?
In the void’s embrace, truth crystallizes:
the star that strains to shine for all
flickers out, fuel scattered to cold.

Drift deeper, into the cosmic river,
where black holes hum their ancient hunger.
They devour without remorse,
bend light to their will,
yet the universe expands,
unfazed, into endless possibility.
Your essence, too—a quasar pulse,
meant for its arc, not every gaze.
Pleasing the all scatters the flame,
dims the blaze to ember glow.
Here, in the heart of infinity,
the self reclaims its orbit:
a lone comet, tail blazing authentic fire,
trailing wonder, not accommodation.

Return now, softened by stellar winds,
to the hollow where it began.
The shadows have thinned,
moss glows under moonlight’s slant.
No need to cup the wants of others—
let them pool in their own hollows.
Stand tall as the oak, roots gripping secrets,
branches free to sway in private rhythm.
The fracture mends not in yielding,
but in the quiet no that births yes
to the soul’s own song.
In this vast weave of earth and star,
one truth endures:
to chase every mirror’s whim
is to vanish into reflection’s lie.

Awaken to the pebble’s wisdom—
small, unyielding, river-kissed.
It rolls not to please the current’s bend,
but emerges polished, path its own.
The cosmos nods, indifferent arbiter:
bloom where you root,
shine for your arc alone.
And in that sovereign glow,
the world, unbidden, draws near—
not as mirrors, but as fellow travelers,
orbiting the light you dared to claim.