Woodchips

The eyes reflected back by the mirror
aren’t my own. All I see is a
soulless husk, just a limp body,
where trapped within is a world of
color and feelings locked away.
No one can see the pained wraiths,
nor hear their frustration and fear,
and most of the time neither can I.
When the husk takes control,
when the world fades from tree to branch,
the fire of the paths are only revealed
far too late as mere woodchips and ashes.