Perspective Shift

I walk into a room filled completely with mirrors, the room shining from glass.
Framed with heavy cast iron and brass.
Reflections displaying each and every possibility of me.
Yet, within' this room filled infinitely of me.
Who I am I'm unable to see.
Which leads me to the question, am I free?

I have no shackles on my hands or feet.
But when I look into my own eyes, who I can be, is all I see.
So is this reflection actually me?

Perhaps I am a slave to thoughts unthought, a dream unsought, words left unsaid.
Am I avoiding my own person?
If so, would this make me alive, but not living, so dead?
The very essence of question leads to such depth of mind, -
Where I find that it's that very depth I dread.
Or maybe the love, yearn, and longing for that depth, instead.
All these riddles, spiraling in my head.

Glaring into the mirror, my reflection seems expecting of me.
Are my choices already defined, inevitably?

Does the mirror show what lies behind our eyes?
Or is it just a disguise, a body of lies.
Does it reflect now hollow cries.
Or does it rather suggest, such hollow lives.
It seems to mock, and prey on young hollow minds.

If I close my eyes, will the reflection fade?
Is questioning it, what makes me a slave?
Enraged; am I, or is the reflection caged?

Holding my head.
I cant take it, crash, boom, until the reflection's dead.

I walk into a room filled completely with frames, the floor covered in glass.
Frames made of heavy cast iron and brass.
For fear of pain, I’m unable to pass.
Where are the mirrors? The only thing I feel able to ask.
Within this room I’m consumed, with nothing resembling, and everything, other than me.
Which leads me to the question, am I free?