The glass moves with spectral apparitions swaying deep within to a macabre dance of sorrow.
Hand prints are left on the glass of souls long forgotten by life but pressed deep inside, trapped for centuries inside the smooth exterior.
The spirits haunt this carnival fun house straining and stretching by day at the world they once roamed but forgot to live in.
Their stretched faces with contorted open mouths press to the glass in a oppressed howl of anguish. They are just memories framed from another life.
They fade as rays of light strain through the dust covered window in the attic. They cannot smell the scent of mothballs that sits heavy in trunks of disregard. Strewn are broken memories, of journeys long forgotten. Scrap books of photographs now fade brittle. Mice gnaw at the spine of books well worn by hands hearts and minds.
The mirror strains in the morning light. It's inhabitants swirl fast to the corner. It is there for only a few moments they will be able to glimpse the outside world. A glimmer of green now hits the smooth surface. It is the tree outside. The ghosts shove the other to see what life they once knew. They tear at each other and sigh as a sparrow lands on the tiny limb and ruffles his chest preparing to sing.
The mirror turns all misty as their faces fog up the window pressed so tight. They rub the cold surface fast with their hands to see but it is too late. The sun has shifted again as time moves on for the real world, and back into darkness they sink. They warp slowly back into flecks of silver and pepper. They fade back into yesterday silently waiting for tomorrow.