The Glass from Within – A Poem

A part of me broke today.

I heard it clatter to the ground,

letting out a soft clink!.

It left a crater in the cement around it,

which told of its true weight.

Looking down at it,

I wondered if the piece of me

would fit back where it was before

or if it was best left behind?

I examined my skin for holes

and I found one in my midsection.

Though there was no visible hole,

I could feel the wound through touch.

Trying to gauge the depth,

to determine how deep into me it went,

I dislodged two more pieces.

They landed with soft clunks!,

but the ground around me

looked as if it were covered in craters.

Looking at them,

they twinkled back up at me,

seemingly filled with wishes and fairy dust,

but I saw something deep within them,

something that belied the darkness within.

I bent down to pick up the three pieces.

They looked like glass,

but were much heavier.

I held one up to the light

and I could see within it

a kaleidoscope of emotions:

the first one held anger,

so much of it that the swirls within

were all red and frothy,

like a turbulent sea.

The second one held sadness,

deep like the ocean,

and a blue so dark it was almost black.

When I looked into the third piece,

I saw memories that I had carried with me,

snapshots of moments that had shaped me.

I saw the hurt and the sadness,

witnessed each moment

as if I lived it once more.

Taking my eye from the third shard of glass,

I wished for something to cleanse me,

for anything to make me feel more human.

I wanted to let the anger go to the wind

and though I felt the sadness holding on to me,

I wanted to be able to let go.

I heard a sound,

a soft tinkle this time.

Looking down,

I saw a bowl filled with water.

It winked up at me from in front of my feet.

Without thinking,

I let the three pieces that had fallen out of me

fall into the bowl.

They landed with a watery bolup! sound.

I watched as the yellow, red and blue

began to seep out of the glass.

The water was filled with a murky brown colour,

so dark that it was almost black.

I heard another sound,

and it was almost as if someone had let out a sigh.

I wondered if it had been me.

When I reached into the bowl to retrieve the glass pieces,

I saw that they had all become clear again,

except for little tinges of colour,

small remnants of what they had once been.

I put them in my pocket and,

as I walked home,

I could hear the soft music they made

that sounded like bells

and wishes yet

to be made.