Ribbons of Glass

March 6, 2010
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Frequencies at which

glass must shatter

eggshells dissolve into spidery cracks

oceans quiver
the broken shards of glass slice, split,

splinter into me

deep inside.
Shrieks. Yes, I can hear, yes
yes, I can know, yes
yes, I see inside, yes
yes, I am not a child, no.
no I am a child

I am innocent and downy
I am tranquility and sorrow and fluff rolled up
you are brutal and blunt and sharp and unforgiving.
I heard that word once. In a play or a movie or a book oh its no use I can’t remember.
It doesn’t matter, but you should still know
you deserve to know.
no, you deserve nothing.
it is Me. I deserve. Me.

Selfish selfish selfish.
After eons of us, this?
The broken glass bruises
and slices me, rapes me,
splits me, haunts me.
But I have it:
a greater capacity.
shards become ribbons,
twirling and pirouetting delightfully
while I converse with the setting sun.
iridescently dancing, ample but thin.
ribbons, so clear and pure.
I am not downy anymore.
I have feathers.

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