In the mist, 8 months have passed

Of looking in the shattered glass
A disfigured reflection greets your eyes
Who do you see?
A stranger? No.
The face familiar?
A friend or foe?
Not quite so.
Yourself?
It cannot be.
This mangled figure is quite your own
With eyes of piercing black of night
And lips curved in fearing fright,
With cheeks coloured poison rose
And skin scarred and growing cold
This beast
How can it be?
In your skin
Breathing free
Is it unknown?
This intruder? No.
This beast has a name
And this name, you own.
Withered and faded, memories
Entombed in the cracks of your mind
Seeping out in their darkened cries
And then, like that, it came to show
What happened those dear months ago.
We saw the truth
You knew the lies
Hidden? No
Just not quite known
That everyone
In this dear, dear world
Both future, present and the distant past
Is the disfigured beast in the shattered glass.