The Mirror

A mirror stands upright in a small room,
It is not exactly a large mirror, but neither is it a small one at that,
It was simply a mirror,
And a dingy one at that,

It stands on rusty bars, titled at an angle that in better days,
Were meant to illuminate a sense of perfection in beauty,
Or to besmudge the blemishes of the spirit,
But those days are long gone, long since passed into menial obscurity,

The mirror is cracked, each dust from its flecks,
As stingy to the fingers, as the whiff is smart to the eyes,
As the edging of the tips are bloody to the tongues,
And the filthiness of the glass is taxing to the visual prowess of the eyes they rape and pillage,
Like the deathly grip of Mongolian Hordes on the Roman Legions of old,

But this mirror has seen better days, as did the corpse it had become knew better,
As well as the corpse laying next to it, knew as well,
The bringer, having fulfilled the purpose of the past, to deliver the retribution of the future,
The bringer, long gone, ensuring the deeds of the shadowy night never once reach the light of the dawn,
But the soul of the damned is forever trapped in the perpetual darkness, but not of the room,
But of the mirror,

Lucii, Lucii,
A vapory hand palms the surface of the mirror,
The breath of the dead beating upon the translucent pores like steaming sins,
Lucii, Lucii,
The last thing the fading visage repeats, pale as the night, and ghastly as the demons its body harbored,
The bringer, holy and righteous in his deed, long since gone,
But vigilant in the guarding of this hidden appendage of time,
An endless circle of time, and endless monotony of the perpetual darkness, that drowns this poor soul,

Lucii, Lucii, Tenebrae,
The wails of the damned, wickedness embodied, hidden in the Tartarus of its own creation,
The bringer, the victor, dark-skinned in suffering, but angelic in the wholeness of recompense,
The mirror, the edifice of the chains bound by ships, and whips, and tails, and pains,
The bringer knows the truth of the corpse, and refuses the offer of the First Sin,
Knowing the Fall of the Two caused the damnation of those to follow,
And sealed away this room, to never again be found,
No scent be smelled, no sound to be heard,
No pelage to remove, no shape to make out,
No poisonous, lecherous, traitorous tongues to hear,

No blasphemy, no memory,
Just entrapment in the coldness of the Hollow of the Void
Lucii, Lucii, Tenebrae,

The bringer is long since gone, blood and sweat and time,
Long since carried him to the Gates of the Undying Lands,
Whether the Three dwell surrounded by the Hosts, and the Halls,
But the soul of the damned wails,
Forever trapped in the mirror,
Forever trapped in the transparency of wickedness, and perversion,
Forever enclosed in perpetual darkness,
Never again to be found, but forgotten, and lost to the fringes of Time Irrelevant,
Until the Olde Worlde is desolved and passed away, the New Gates, and the New Worlde are ascendant,
And mirror, and the corpse, and the room, and wailing soul,
Are forever erased from existence,
As Time demands it.