Mirrors,
and the truth that they behold.
Time,
aging my innocence into old.
The truth,
lashed in mirrors, lost in time,
who I am,
is not what others see in their eyes.
If my mind were a body and stretched over earth at dusk,
I'd probably hear the echo of what I'm doing, what I must.
If my philosophy were a painting that even Leonardo understood,
the world would be wading in my bloods river and lost in my hearts woods.
And there go the witches, casting spells upon my mind,
making me to be a monster,
and leaving my morals behind.
And there goes the world again,
turning me into someone I'm not,
making my hands fight against my mind, contradicting all my thoughts.
And as the heretics say, we may never know, but as long as we own shadows well forever have earthbound glow.

Who I am, is not what others see in their eyes,
for I am but the character, and the author writes my lies.