The Tyrant’s Mirror

In polished glass, gilded and grand,
I seek the face of power —
The one they bow to, tremble before,
The maker of laws written in others’ blood.

But something’s wrong with this reflection:
Behind my crown, a thousand hollow eyes,
Between my fingers, ghostly hands reach through,
And in the shadows of my royal robes,
Bodies pile like autumn leaves.

Is that my smile, or the grimace
Of the poet whose tongue I ordered cut?
Are these my eyes, or the vacant stares
Of children in my re-education camps?
Is this my voice, or the echo
Of screams from basement cells?

The mirror shows such treacherous things —
How my palace walls are built from bones,
How my throne rests on broken backs,
How my scepter drips with memories
I thought I’d washed away.

I see now: my reflection has become
A crowded thing, haunted by faces
I tried to erase from history.
They press against the glass,
Their breath clouding my image,
Their fingers leaving prints
On my perfectly powdered cheeks.

“Look,” they whisper,
“See how your crown sits crooked,
Heavy with the weight of lies.
See how your hands shake
When no one’s watching.
See how fear has made its home
In the corners of your mouth.”

I could shatter this mirror,
Order new ones made
That show only what I wish to see.
I could blind every reflecting surface,
Drain every pool of still water,
But still they’d find ways
To make me see.

Even in the darkest night,
Their eyes shine back at me
From window panes and polished floors,
From the rim of my wine glass,
From the blade of my knife.

They say power sits like a crown,
But it hangs like a noose,
Drawing tighter with each decree,
Each signature on death warrants,
Each order to cleanse and purify.

Tomorrow, I’ll order this mirror destroyed,
Have the glass ground to dust,
But tonight, I cannot look away
From this terrible truth:
The monster in the mirror
Wears my face,
But speaks with the voices
Of thousands I’ve silenced,
And bleeds with the wounds
Of all I’ve broken.

In this perfect glass,
I see at last
The price of power:
My reflection,
No longer mine alone,
But shared with ghosts
Who refuse to let me forget
What I’ve become.