A Poem: Behind The Glass

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.



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