Twisted disguise covers my muse,

Is it pain,

Or, that which amuse,

Could it be broken glass,

Shredding, cutting leaving the soul,

In degraded pain?

Looking past tattered soul,

Among the mirrored looking glass,

Which continues the window of pain,

Showing trapped soul,

An embodiment of young lad rolling in grass,

Who is now a broken man,

Shattered about the floor,

Cutting his feet eternally in pain,

While rolling in agonized entrapment,

For his soul never free,

Never floating in surrounding breeze,

Always a reminder of time,

Eternity which hangs in painful memories.

Staring into the broken looking glass’ still frame,

A memory of a time,

Now long forgotten,

Of when pain, was long away.