We are merely glass, asking to be broken.
We will shatter into a million fragments at any moment,
Never to be pieced together again.
And this war, this terrible war, is the hammer,
That is the cause for our pain, our suffering,
The sole body that has the power to shatter us beyond recognition.
When one finally goes home,
If going home is, in fact, in store for him,
A mother will try to see the reflection of her son,
But, the glass is so cracked, so damaged, he is no longer there.
Instead, a distorted version is in his place,
Changed, shattered, never to return to his former state.
But some, the lucky ones,
Are just scratched along the surface,
Still visible, still a reflection of the man that was once there.
Those fortunate men, however, are sparse,
Most are too far gone.
The pressure of the war, of that hammer,
Pushes down on us, and a small fracture appears.
That one, small fracture spreads like a wildfire,
Cracking and splintering,
Until, at last, we are so far gone,
That we simply shatter.
We are merely glass, asking to be broken.
YOU ARE READING
~blossoms~
PoetryJust a book of my poems. It's a new hobby of mine, so I'm not too good at it. Thanks for reading this book-thingy that I made.
