A poem I wrote a while ago but rather like.
Behind the glass
your hand is pressed to the smooth surface
it leaves prints smeared across the newly polished surface
but you don’t notice.
Outside, chatter breaks the silence
it rises above the overwhelming quiet
and swoops through the air on the wings of words.
It vibrates the glass
with a quick, sharp motion
then mutes for a moment before
it resumes its cacophonous assault.
It wants to break the barrier.
It wants to splinter the glass into reflecting shards
It wants to worm its way in
and slowly, suffocatingly,
fill the calm space.
And you hear the clatter,
but are rarely heard.
The words pop like bubbles,
freed into the jumbled mess
as they are spoken,
but you still don’t speak.
And they don’t notice
that the opaque glass around you
is all too solid for their delusional dreams.
Your hand passes through
the crystalline panel
and it shatters around you soundlessly
And they don’t know
that anything has changed,
And that sometimes you wish
the glass could be real.