How Emily Dickinson would write it – the shard of the glass.
Fearful of the crystal shaped glass placed on the tablecloth embroidery, the way it spills as its unfurling the glitz I carry, it speaks to me in a crude language, away from the breath I carry, it’s my heart of fear that - it carries. Pecan wood, a box of square the way it sheds, from the amidst to the base, my heart shatters as it heals.
Here lies the remains of the tales to forbid.
The intoxication the glass dissolves, lures me to the flashy paint, here’s what was promised of the rules – no indoor games. Behind the curtains I see a yard, the green flows, and it doesn’t tear, the opposite of reality is where my heart lies but my mind controls the obscured ties.
I felt a burial in my skin as the shovel dug too deep, the cremation carried the fire of the weak, and the eyes to not be seen. The verses written on my bones were too slight to even notice, yet he made sure the world would surely distinguish, now I lie in nature as a flower or some fruit, I sometimes bloom as the daisies of the sun and sometimes fall pink on the person looking up.
The shard of the glass spoke in unspeakable ways, it slit the clog in my throat in untouchable ways, or should I say? It creeped me out of my misery, gave me the solace necessary. To be given as a flower to the sun that once shunned my power.
Here lies the crystal glass – to having me.
