The Mirror

There is blood upon my hands
How could you take me to these lands?

Mountains taller than mine eye
The winds no more than a sigh

Bogs that stew, gurgle, and seep
Beasts of men who hiss and creep

There is blood upon my hands
How can I meet your demands?

Do I give such savage hope?
That you can't seem to cope?

I am affixed to this wall
And at your ugliness do I fall.