A Free Soul

Do you ever just stand in front of the mirror and
In a split second realise that this person standing right in front of you,
That looks like your reflection; is someone else?
That this person bears the face that you’re not familiar with, anymore?
Who is this person?
Why is it staring right through me?
Looking down my soul,
Stirring my demons up,
Saying my name but shouting out the contrary?
It’s almost unnerving as a rush down my spine.
This person doesn’t feel as pure as she used to be,
This soul has been unholy,
This spirit has wandered off,
Kissed the sweet abyss of darkness,
And came back to devour upon its own lightning
It has been scarred with images of debauchery
And then washed with a catalyst
Every time, when this person got on her knees,
Only to find out that the outburst had to end up,
Into a sad nothingness
The dilemma of being born a free soul,
Was what it was.