It was never about the glass.
Not the flux between full
or emptiness, either.
Rather, hue--
The color of the shards
Scattering, shattering
Falling from the hands
Of Time
Breaking into a bed of jewels
One day
I will wake up
Colored in.
YOU ARE READING
Prickmedainty Poetry
PoetryFor all those who broke their glass slipper and still search for stars in the shards.