I was looking through frosted glass.
I could make out vague shapes
of what lay on the other side.
But it had never been clear.
No matter how much I cleaned the glass,
I couldn't quite see the image.
Until the glass shattered.
Not from a brick,
or a hammer,
or through sheer force.
But from a sound.
A lone horn at just the right frequency.
A sound I had never before heard
or even considered.
And among the fragments
now scattered on the ground
I could see just how much
had been obscured.
And through the frame
I had desperately clung to,
I saw her.
For the first time,
I saw her for what she was.
That Horrifying Beast
turned docile.
YOU ARE READING
Foreign Heart - A Poetry Collection
PoetryEmotions continue to perplex me, and this is me simply trying my hardest to understand where they come from and what they mean.
