Poem: The Price of Opaqueness

broken window

The Price of Opaqueness 

One by one, the windows break,
their opaque, filthy panes  shattering,
No longer protecting,
no longer blocking light and color,
or the air, cold or warm as it will.

The world outside becomes real,
no longer a thing of mystery or fear,
a puzzle of color and wind,
sharply focused.

The first panes broke from wind and storms,
the crashing of glass waking you in the night.
Your first instinct was to cover them up,
to trade light for safety.
But in the morning you saw it.
The color. The light. The air unencumbered.
And you wondered how many other lies the windows have told you.
You realize the price of opaqueness
as the smell of fall flowers and rain filled the room.

You bend down
and pick up a stone.
There are more windows to break.

About this poem. 

“You are depressed. You can’t live a joyful life.”

“You are needy. You are a pest.”

“You are not beautiful or handsome or smart or  (fill in the blank) enough.”

“You are unworthy.”

Lies, all. Pick up your rock. There are windows to break.



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