The Glass

The glass is old,
so old it wrinkles the light,
transforming the sun lit landscape
into a Monet,
not quote real

a counterpoint
to the dark room
where you have sat quietly for so long,
the rippled sunlight
a tease,

a promise
held at bay,
framed like a museum piece.
You are unsure

precisely what lies on the other side,
but
you are certain of one thing:

There is light,

and the dark that has surrounded you,
crippled you,
held you at bay,
is one step closer to finishing
your long, slow murder.

Your fingers touch the glass,
so warm with hope
it brings tears to your eyes,
dripping memories that silently
fall
down your cheeks.

“Enough!” your heart cries,
as your hand grasps the stone and raises it,
refusing to be a prisoner any longer,
refusing to live in a house without doors,
determined to find the light,
unconcerned whether the details will look the same
when the glass is shattered,
unconcerned that the shards may
cut you, that your own blood may be shed,
the bright red mingling,
painful and real as the landscape almost in sight,

sure
that the light, real, warm and enveloping
is better
than this safe, dark corner
where you have lived
so long.

About this poem

Many of us have dark corners we have lived in: Depression, broken relationships, mourning, fears. We stay there, fearful, uncertain, unable….

But we are not unable. There is light, where ever we are. We simply have to find out way out. To cry. To shout. To stand up and say. not just “this too shall pass.”, but “this will not stand.” To ask for help. To pray a warrior’s prayer.

To break the glass.

Tom