A fumbling hand strikes a glass,
Falling, shattering, breaking
Into pieces ten thousands
That lay dead on the floor;
Like a broken dream
I lie like a corpse in a deep slumber.
Hope I could have survived
This tragedy, loss and suffering
That has occurred to the world;
That lies in the nadir of pain, desolation
And whose wretchedness
Has spared no
being - worthy or kind.
These moments
have scarred
My heart, my
soul, my self
And I see how
cracks have appeared
Through which
agony has found
Its course in the
abyss of my conscience
Tearing and
breaking me.
Like the glass
pieces on the floor
That is sharp yet
futile
And has no form
or structure;
Separated,
isolated and sequestered
Self, A face –
broken and ruined
Is what I see in
the glass.
