The struggle

What can one man do when faced with my mirror?
In the glass there is no past,
but doubtful such thoughts last
with a mind full of weighted horror.

I see the sun, and I see the Moon.
Prodding them with hopes and heart,
I retreat alone into the dark,
Stumbling into my feeble red coccoon.

Days will pass sitting there,
battling with the known and false comfort,
forever circumspect, dwelling in hurt.
If only that sun was a true wish and fair...

If only this mirror were made of lead,
and my eyes turned to the sky,
with a soul blessed by adonai...
I would not feel alive when I am dead.

There is no true happiness in this place,
only anger...fear..despair...
fatal releases caused by a simple tear,
Ending with tears punishing a familiar face...

Years lost to the essence of the bleek...
Clouded doubt, responsive to a guilty cognition...
yearning for strength, resorting to false superstition....

What must one man do....
When so utterly, and reasonably weak?