The Grime of Self

In the dim-lit glass, a shadowed face,
Grime gathers, like the peat’s embrace,
A dance of earth and ancient lore,
Where echoes of the past implore.

The mirror holds a bogland’s breath,
Whispers of the soul’s deep depth,
Each smudge a tale of toil and time,
In the grime, a silent chime.

Fingers trace the furrowed lines,
On the glass, like furrows in the fields,
Each mark a memory, a sign,
Of the self that time reveals.

Beneath the layers, a light does gleam,
A flicker, fierce, within the seam,
Through the grime, a glint of grace,
In the heart’s hidden, hallowed place.

The grime, a guardian, grave and grand,
Of secrets in the soil’s soft hand,
In its embrace, we find our face,
Our truth, at last, in time’s embrace.