A simple glass window
clear, transparent, bright,
wanting to communicate
a falling shaft of light.
But suddenly the pane is pained
by a smashing, crashing fist;
the words so simply given,
flung back in grievous twist.
And as the window shatters
and lies upon the ground
the hand bemoans the new red wounds
which on its flesh are found.
“You cut me to the heart!” it cries;
The window lies aghast–
How did a simple conversation
become a fight so fast?
Leave a Reply