A Mirror Held Up

A mirror held up,
not by choice.

Shadows pointed out,
truths unseen,
or perhaps, simply
ignored.

The echoes of
a judgement.

“Not good enough.”
“Used.”
Words that pierce
deeper than any blade.

And so, the canvas
must be clean.

No more painting
over cracks;
the foundation first.

How can one
speak of beauty,

when the inner
landscape is still
barren?

Truth must resonate
from within.

This journey, now,
is inward.

A quiet cultivation,
before any harvest.

Goodness, a seed to be
nurtured, unseen.

The quill lies silent,
the pages blank.

No ink will flow until
the source is clear.