Mirror.

Behold the monster that I am,
Words have failed at my salvation,
And now, without the tongue of Gods befriending me,
I am mortal and infantile,
I am but the ground that supports me,
A cold dead thing,
And thus my spirit dampened by relentless mist,
A chill. A retreat.
May warmth wander near me.
And still I scurry further.