The Mirrorless Ones Poem by Savva Emanon

They walk in spotless shoes through fields they've scorched,
hands folded in the soft theatre of prayer.
Their tongues drip honey over graves they dug themselves,
and they call it mercy.

They are architects of fog,
rewriting the skyline with smoke and memory.
Every wound they caused becomes a misunderstanding,
every plea for truth a personal attack.
They weave halos from denial,
polish their own reflections until the glass forgets what it saw.

Their smiles are sermons, rehearsed and righteous,
eyes gleaming with the innocence of self-made gods.
They speak of love but leave bruises shaped like logic,
call the broken ungrateful for bleeding.

To face them is to stand before a mirror
that swears you never existed.
They fear no reckoning,
for in their gospel, sin belongs to everyone else.

And that, that holy blindness,
that sacred certainty, is not madness,
but something colder.
A quiet horror that wears virtue's face
and sleeps soundly through the sound of its own destruction.