MIRROR MAZE

MIRROR MAZE

MOVEMENT I — THE TENT

(Cantos 1–10: it still resembles life; that’s the cruelty.)

CANTO I — THE TENT WAS OPEN

The tent was open once, and this is the detail that ruins you.

No guards blocked you. No chains rattled. No fire warned you.

Light did what light does: it waited.

You did not refuse violently.

You misplaced importance.

The music was still music then, not a mechanism.

The laughter was still laughter, not rehearsal.

The mirrors still held one face.

If only entered quietly, like a harmless phrase.

That is how it survived.

CANTO II — THE TICKET

You are given a ticket you do not remember receiving.

It is already in your pocket when you reach for it.

It bears a date that means nothing until it means everything.

You read it once and feel no fear.

You read it twice and feel irritation, as though interrupted.

You fold it and decide to deal with it later.

Later becomes trained.

Later learns your name.

CANTO III — THE FACE FOUND IN THE DARK

Your face is discovered in the dark before you understand it is lost.

Your eyes are open, but they do not search.

Your mouth rests in practiced neutrality.

Your skin is dry—not from decay, but from living too long without rain.

This is not the face of a monster.

It is the face of someone who learned to function without reverence

and still be called fine.

You look reasonable here.

That is the danger.

CANTO IV — BEFORE-ME (FIRST CROWN)

Something tightens behind your eyes.

Hunger arrives without introduction.

You see what you placed first, and it looks respectable at a distance.

Success stands nearest. Control stands composed.

Approval smiles like a substitute god.

You tell yourself you never replaced God.

You only delayed Him.

Now gravity takes your neck.

Your chin lowers, pulled by what you elevated.

You attempt explanation.

Intention does not dismantle altars.

CANTO V — GRAVEN (THE MASK PRACTICE)

Your skin stiffens under the lights.

Your expression freezes mid-gesture.

You remember shaping truth into something that would not resist you.

You remember carving belief into décor.

You preferred gods who demanded aesthetics, not repentance.

You preferred comfort that resembled holiness.

Now your face becomes a mask fused to bone.

You scream, and applause answers.

The crowd loves consistency.

The mask cracks. It does not come off.

CANTO VI — VAIN (THE HOLY NOISE)

Your mouth opens, and words spill stripped of weight.

Sacred syllables fall like currency without nation.

You spoke God’s name often and lightly.

You used it to win, to decorate emptiness,

to feel protected while remaining unchanged.

Now silence flees from you.

Echoes return everything you ever said—hollow, multiplied.

You attempt prayer.

Prayer requires listening.

Nothing answers.

CANTO VII — TOMORROW (THE CLOCK SMILE)

Time arrives wearing white gloves.

Your brow tightens into numbers.

You postponed rest and called it diligence.

You scheduled repentance and called it wisdom.

You promised attention soon.

Now soon surrounds you.

Seconds crack. Minutes circle.

You run without distance, and breath accomplishes nothing.

CANTO VIII — BLOODLINE (THE SILENT ROW)

Something ancient enters your eyes.

Faces gather behind faces—names you never learned,

prayers you never finished, people you dismissed as inconvenient.

You cut roots to move faster.

You mistook severance for freedom.

Now generations sit in a silent row behind your skull,

watching you forget yourself.

Their disappointment does not shout.

That makes it heavier.

CANTO IX — RED (THE HANDS RISE)

Your hands rise into view.

You cannot lower them.

They are clean and unbearable,

because cleanliness is not innocence.

Memory returns as sensation.

Every casual harm completes itself.

Every excuse dissolves.

Not as you gave it.

As it was received.

Your face does not become monstrous.

It becomes accurate.

CANTO X — NO (THE FIRST BELL)

The bell rings once.

You flinch as though you have always been waiting.

You remember light that came gently.

You remember declining without drama.

You did not refuse violently.

You said, not now.

Now the word returns, exact.

No.

The tent tightens as though it has learned your shape.

MOVEMENT II — THE MIRRORS

(Cantos 11–20: reality destabilizes; the maze admits itself.)

CANTO XI — THE CORRIDOR OF YOU

The mirrors multiply.

Each reflection is almost you.

Some smile too long.

Some forget to blink.

Some wear your face like borrowed clothing.

You touch the glass and feel warmth.

You step back and realize it is yours, withheld.

A clown passes and speaks your name incorrectly.

You correct it.

The clown laughs.

CANTO XII — AFTER (THE HUNGER THAT DOES NOT HOLD)

Desire enters disguised as promise.

It smells like a lie you once called normal.

You mistook appetite for love.

You took what dissolved on contact.

Now longing eats itself.

Every embrace turns to ash before comfort forms.

You always wanted what came next.

There is no next here.

CANTO XIII — MINE (THE VANISHING OBJECTS)

You hold a cup that empties.

Bread that becomes dust.

Warmth that withdraws.

You stole quietly—

credit, time, truth, tenderness.

Now everything you touch belongs elsewhere.

Even your reflection refuses you.

The word mine burns your throat.

Nothing answers.

CANTO XIV — WITNESS (THE EYES THAT CANNOT CLOSE)

Truth arrives without spectacle.

It stands where you must see it.

Your eyelids lift beyond comfort.

They do not obey you.

Every lie you told or tolerated circles patiently.

They wait.

To step forward would unravel you.

So you remain still.

Stillness becomes sentence.

CANTO XV — GRAVEN AGAIN (THE PAINT DOES NOT WASH)

The clowns repaint you gently.

That is the cruelty.

The paint is familiar:

certainty, performance, borrowed holiness.

You try to wipe it away.

Your skin refuses your hand.

The mask is not on you.

It is you.

Applause returns in short bursts.

It tests.

CANTO XVI — TOMORROW AGAIN (THE LOOPED MUSIC)

The music loops and never resolves.

Your brow tightens again.

You remember every later.

You loved postponement because it felt like control.

Now time is not a river.

It is a treadmill.

You run.

The bell rings.

CANTO XVII — BEFORE-ME AGAIN (THE SMALL GODS RETURN)

Your hunger returns smaller, poorer.

The gods reappear as props—

a paper crown, a mirrored coin, a hollow prize.

You reach automatically.

They slip away.

The altar no longer needs objects.

It trained your posture.

Your neck bends by itself.

CANTO XVIII — BLOODLINE AGAIN (THE NAMES YOU NEVER LEARNED)

A family name is spoken.

You do not respond.

Shame is quiet here.

Behind the mirrors, the silent row remains.

They do not accuse.

You already know.

CANTO XIX — RED AGAIN (THE HANDS DO NOT FORGET)

Your hands rise again.

Not as fists.

As evidence.

You feel the bruise your sentence became.

The fear your calm planted.

Comprehension arrives.

It does not reduce debt.

The clowns stop laughing.

They nod.

CANTO XX — VAIN AGAIN (THE PRAYER THAT CANNOT FORM)

The words return but refuse assembly.

You used sacred language as charm, not surrender.

The echoes thin your voice.

You notice the difference between saying God

and knowing Him.

The light was not taken.

You set it down.

Your hands cannot find it.

MOVEMENT III — THE HANDS

(Cantos 21–30: sensation replaces argument.)

CANTO XXI — THE RING WITHOUT APPLAUSE

The ring remains.

The sound has changed.

The audience watches like conscience without bargaining.

The lights expose.

If only returns without comfort.

CANTO XXII — RED (THE TOUCH COMPLETES ITSELF)

Your hands lift like proof.

Every moment completes itself.

Every humiliation arrives intact.

Not as memory.

As sensation without end.

You do not scream.

There is no one to persuade.

CANTO XXIII — BEFORE-ME (THE EYES LEARN THEIR POSTURE)

Your eyes widen again.

Hunger survives extinction.

Your pupils kneel by habit.

Your face looks trained.

You did not refuse violently.

You preferred what could be measured.

CANTO XXIV — GRAVEN (THE PAINT ENTERS THE SKIN)

The brush feels kind.

The paint is the version praised because it was easy.

You remember reshaping truth to avoid change.

The smile locks.

The mask refuses.

CANTO XXV — VAIN (THE WORDS TURN TO DUST)

Holy language collapses mid-air.

The atmosphere rejects performance.

You cannot convince Heaven by sounding religious.

If shortens.

CANTO XXVI — TOMORROW (THE CLOCK INSIDE YOUR BROW)

Time sits in you now.

Every later drops like a pebble into a well

that never stops falling.

The bell measures delay.

Not now.

Not now.

Not now.

CANTO XXVII — BLOODLINE (THE SILENT ROW LEANS FORWARD)

The silent row presses closer.

You mocked reverence.

You called honor clutter.

Now the past watches without accusation.

You become your own.

CANTO XXVIII — AFTER (THE LIPS THAT CANNOT HOLD)

Desire opens and finds nothing.

You chased what vanished.

You called it passion.

A clown mirrors your reaching—slow, polite.

It is mercy without comfort.

CANTO XXIX — MINE (THE FINGERS THAT GRASP AIR)

Possession has been removed from language.

Your hands open and close like doors in an empty hall.

You learn how poverty hides inside abundance.

CANTO XXX — WITNESS / NO

Understanding arrives complete.

Too late to be used.

The final word returns like a signed document.

No.

Your hands cannot find the light.

MOVEMENT IV — THE WORD NO

(Cantos 31–40: language seals.)

CANTO XXXI — THE QUIET RING

The ring shrinks because language has.

Explanation ends.

If—

The word does not finish.

CANTO XXXII — BEFORE-ME (WITHOUT OBJECTS)

Hunger remains without object.

You bow to absence.

Learning does not require belief.

CANTO XXXIII — GRAVEN (THE MASK WITHOUT PAINT)

No paint arrives.

Your face stiffens anyway.

Performance outlives the audience.

CANTO XXXIV — VAIN (THE BROKEN PRAYER)

Words do not organize.

Prayer is surrender shaped inward.

Your mouth closes.

CANTO XXXV — TOMORROW (THE LAST SCHEDULE)

Time presses.

Unfinished obedience settles around you.

Later has no location.

CANTO XXXVI — BLOODLINE (THE NAMELESS CALL)

A name is spoken.

You do not answer.

Forgetting completes itself.

CANTO XXXVII — RED (THE HANDS ARE STILL)

Your hands hold knowledge.

Harm required no hatred.

Only practiced indifference.

They stop arguing.

CANTO XXXVIII — AFTER (DESIRE WITHOUT IMAGE)

Desire remains without direction.

Quiet exists.

It does not adore you.

CANTO XXXIX — MINE (THE EMPTY WORD)

The word dissolves.

Release occurs without permission.

Nothing is returned.

CANTO XL — WITNESS / NO (THE SEAL)

Truth is already here.

You see without narrative.

You understand without exit.

The word settles.

No.

The sentence ends.

There is no punctuation.