here-c0mes-the-rain-again

A broken mirror held in one hand. An image of a girl that she no longer recognises. Bad luck for seven years, Sunken eyes full of fear, The body that she cared for is no longer here. It’s not romantic. It’s not a delight, When the mind of your own is what fills you with fright. She’s done this to herself they say, And whilst this might be true, She’s trying her best for this all to end. If only they knew. At the end of her hands, frail and blue, She let go of the mirror, As the voices, they grew. It falls to the floor, across to one side. Her reflection is glimmering upon the light from outside. The glass is clear, not a crack you would find. The fragments, the shatters, Are all in her mind.