You'll find me on the sweetest rose, biding my time to make you bleed.

Is it alive or is it dead? Is its fate all in your head? Lifting the box assuming its demise. Aren't you lucky it has nine lives?

In mirrors I reflect, in windows I frame, In cups I take shape, though always the same. Through me, the light will bend or pass, but handle me wrong, and I will not last.

I have a face but no eyes, and I have a pole but never go fishing. I can be captured without being chased, and I’m raised but have no voice. I’m full of holes but still hold the wind, and I’m always at the top when I’m at my best. What am I?

What is always in front of you, but can’t be seen?