Scattered shards of glass, speak out to me
As it falls across the marble floor, to find something to hold
Tiny crystals of a tiny heart, sing songs of despair
The restlessness of the day, The longing of the night!
“Cliché”, it sounds to ears who never heard the songs of the dove
As a broken heart laments out its worst fears
Waiting, drowning in hopelessness
Knowing the end has been written and yet staring at the writer to go on for just another page.
The writer is stubborn, says the ending is perfect! I will not change or write a syllable.
He leaves and the heart bleeds.
As the glass splinters scatter across the floor, the blood oozes out of the wound
The writer is gone, the glass is gone, all the heart can do is watch.
As it burns on a pyre, flames licking all sides, away with the strong muscles
Leaving charred black soot behind, to be swept away with the wind.