Broken Glass… the rippling, the crippling first waves of the day, break the single reflection though not the whole. Yet, still once it starts, the vibration won’t stop.
This is how it began way when the ocean of consciousness was but a void.
The chaos, its beauty, gave us Life.
Broken, glassy, dangerous, but beautiful.
Broken glass, song, verse, poem, whatevs number three. Here from beyond to “emancipate yourself from mental slavery.”
Slow rhythmic, rhythm with rhymes so magically… woven. Woven through the tapestry of time our shared consciousness trav-els.
Slice. Sliced a bit of my flesh open so the blood pours through these keys, making music with words when I type or the pen dances passionately across the canvas…
Of Paper or screen. It doesn’t matter to me for even if I was blind, I’d paint, so long as the word, that Love, was with me.
Broken glass reflects the light like molasses, beautiful and cutting, sort of like Onassis, Jackie…
That tragic figurine. So calm, so just, so just damn serene. A life lived that should have been normal, yet in its place was something else, ripped away so tragically.
As she fell from the shelf, glassy pieces of her soul lying there reflecting the light symmetrically…
On the floor. Broken glass, there, right there (!) on the floor, lies a life, that’s no more.
Broken glass, the shards lie lifeless, filled with sharp light, ready to cut… the skin of any who dare to pass better be ready to fight.
Broken dreams, its fragments drift without life, both clear at night and dull in the day, dreams, were they mine or are they yours, it does not matter for these dreams are lost, lost without a fight.
A cry, its tears a collective utter, so mournful, lost is all the joy, the gypsy’s cards are turning, fear is no more, no more willingness to put up its fight.
Broken glass, broken dreams, a cry all mingle tonight, as I stare down at the brown residue on the floor of the one drink we lost on this very night.