You, staring back, know too well that the world beyond the glass
is no better than this cryptic facade,
crowded with decisions unseen and futures untold.
Yet here, within these silvered edges,
your most poignant musings whisper, "Isn't it ironic?"
The reflections laugh, or perhaps weep,
for they have more right to speak than you ever shall.
"Remember us," they chant, fading like echoes in a hall
of mirrors abandoned, save for us.