The Man and the Broken Glasses

The mirror glimmers like the moon at night.
It reflects the object that's in sight.
Now it shows within itself a man.
The man puts on his broken glasses as he gazes at himself.

He runs his hands across his short brown hair,
silky smooth and fragile, the essence of himself.
Frowning slightly, he feels his long round cheeks,
his soft lips tremble slightly, a gentle move.

Through his broken glasses he sees himself, an ugly fiend,
a thing of gore, grotesque and imperfect.
He is an opposition to his idea of beauty,
The fair golden haired face he so desires can never be his own.

This truth tears him into pieces.
He seeks the destruction of all that reminds him of himself.
The poor man, unloved, lost in the darkness of his heart,
His soul is broken as his glasses are.

But is it wickedness inside the man, or is this just what it seems to be?
The unfeeling fiend is but an illusion, the darkness is not real.
The softness of his hair, the beauty of his smile, the fragile twinkle in his eyes,
the good that radiates from within his heart, that is real.

Yet the man himself was blind to this,
because of his accursed broken glasses.
The broken view of the world from behind those lenses,
the distortion numbed his senses.

Now the man stands before himself.
Torn by rage he evanesced into the darkness of his deep despair.
From behind the broken glasses by himself he cries,
fragile tears fall down from the bitter sadness of his eyes.