The Image in the Mirror

A poetic reckoning with identity, truth, and the rebellion against divine design.

When Eden woke, and morning kissed the clay,
The breath of God became the soul of man.
He drew the lines no mortal hand could sway,
And sealed the pattern none can change nor span.

Male and female stood, two mirrors bright,
Reflecting heaven in their fleshly hue.
Each bore the flame of sanctifying light,
Distinct in form, yet equal, just, and true.

But lo, the glass is fractured by our will;
Desire, that restless tyrant of the mind,
Would crown itself as god, and dare to fill
The throne where Truth once sat, serene, defined.

Now surgeons sculpt what angels dare not name,
And call the scar salvation of the soul.
But can the body, altered, hide the same
Old ache that yearns for what was once made whole?

A man may weave his hair, unlearn his frame,
And walk beneath the banner of the new;
Yet every cell still whispers Adam’s name,
And every womb repeats what Eve once knew.

O pity those who chase the phantom’s grace,
Who trade their birthright for the praise of dust.
They lose themselves, and in the mirror’s face
Find not their truth, but ashes of their trust.

I do not scorn the wounded or the weak;
Their sorrow is a hymn I understand.
Yet mercy without truth is pale and bleak,
A seed that dies upon unfertile sand.

Restore the glass. Let broken light descend.
What God began, no man shall twist nor end.