As You See, So You Are

If the world looks dim,
shadows settling thicker,
every face sharp-edged,
unyielding,
if laughter rings hollow,
kindness running scarce,
and you wear suspicion
like armor never shed —
what does it whisper of you?

If hope is just a word
in a dust-laden book
left untouched on the shelf,
if joy feels a stranger
and trust, a fool’s pursuit,
have you paused to ask why?

Do you notice the cracks in the lens,
fingerprints smudged across each view?
Could the fault lie not in the light,
nor in how others act or speak,
but in the walls you’ve built —
high and hard, leaving room
only for guarded beliefs?

If bitterness clings to your tongue,
the world returning your cold stare,
if each day feels
a battle to survive,
what does this mirror reflect,
and what beauty goes unseen?

What you call truth
is a mirror you’ve forged,
each angle bent to cast
the light you deem fit.
You speak of the world
as if it’s carved in stone,
a straight line,
a known unknown.

But what you say
of strangers and cities,
places never visited —
that’s the undercurrent,
the private river of your mind
flowing out for all to see.

The world can’t help
but curve back toward you,
a mirror less of facts
and more of perception.

Each judgment, each claim,
a thread in the tapestry
of who you are in silence.
What you love, what you disdain,
what you deem unworthy or wise —
it’s all laid bare, naked as bone,
a quiet confession
from the depths of your soul.

Sharp edges soften
when met without a blade,
and books hold more
than abandoned hope,
waiting for you
to open — to unfold.