In an age long after
gods had choked on their worship,
there rose a kingdom
not ruled by crowns or creeds —
but by mirrors.
No kings.
No prophets.
No laws.
Only reflections:
handcrafted illusions
mass-produced
to hush the conscience
and flatter the soul.
Every newborn was given one:
Polished on one side —
to behold their curated kindness.
Blacked on the other —
to absorb the sins of others.
They called it balance.
They called it mercy.
They called it everything
but what it was:
blindness with publicity paid for in faith.
So they grew,
fluent in the art
of selective reflection.
A thief mourned betrayal.
A liar cursed infidelity.
A coward praised sacrifice.
A gossip lit candles for truth.
They twisted sin into perfume.
Labelled flaws as trauma.
Sold apologies as virtue.
Packaged rot with ribbons.
Until one child was born
without a mirror.
No shine.
No shadow.
Just sight.
He wandered their alleys
and saw things not meant to be seen:
A priest fasting for peace
while baptizing blood.
A mother preaching compassion
while disowning her daughter’s desire.
Lovers who pledged forever
but planted knives mid-embrace.
Artists who painted rebellion
only when it was fundable.
He saw monsters in halos
and saints with fangs.
When he spoke,
they gasped.
“He has no mirror.
How can he know what’s right?”
So they called him broken.
Blasphemous.
Uncivilized.
He left —
not in rage,
but in relief.
He vanished into the forests
where wolves bite without outrage,
and grief isn’t bought off in pretenses.
Where blood was still blood —
not a scarlet metaphor.
Years passed.
The kingdom bloated.
Then cracked.
The mirrors split.
The polish peeled.
The blackened glass reflected back.
And people died —
not by war,
not by plague,
but by panic.
By the horror
of seeing themselves whole
for the first time.
They called it reckoning.
But no gods came.
No prophets returned.
No saviors arrived.
Only the mirrorless man,
now grown,
now grinning without grace,
walked through the ruins.
Where temples smelled of rot,
where prayers hung like cobwebs,
where justice had become
just another censored word.
He picked up a shard
and carved into the city gates:
“You weren’t holy. Just lit well.
You weren’t moral. Just better paraphrased.
Truth was never hidden — only unwelcome.
The mirror didn’t lie. You did — through its teeth.”
And then he walked
into the silence,
into the soil,
into the wild —
where things kill because they must,
and bleed without writing poems about it.
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