Boxes of Glass

Boxes of Glass

Boxes of glass.
Art. Or prison.
Created with meaning or without.
Walls clear. So clear
you could walk through them
were they not so firm,
were you not afraid of being cut,
of bleeding but….

… but you have bled before
and lived. You will again.
and despite the glass, no one will see,
or notice, or care
pass a short tut-tut or huzzah
before they are distracted
by what lies on the other side
of new glass, your bloody feet healing
from the first step.

About this poem

Lots of my past in this one. We think people care about the life we lead. My experience is that they care less than we believe they do. We tend to build boxes around us, and even when they have become prisons, we are afraid to break through those walls.

It’s called being human.


PS: The picture was taken at The Mount, Edith Wharton’s home. They have an outside sculpture garden there that is as modern as her own aesthetic was Gilded Age.

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