An empty vase in all of its crystal clarity
Contrasting disgracefully with the bleak darkness of this room,
Rests atop a collection
Of Van Gogh’s paintings.
Piled upon the wooden antiqued teacart,
“Starry Night”
Is shining through the glassy transparency
Of this vapid vessel,
Withstanding high winds blowing wild wheat fields
Colored cacophonously.

In the glass house in which I dwell,
Though I throw no stones,
I hear a sudden shattering.
Disjointed shards of glass
Are dropping as dead crows
Upon a stormy night,
Onto the frozen cement,
Into a foul, fetid heap,
Defining glass as broken into smithereens,
The cracking of ice,
And sounds as muffled by a winter’s squall-
My tears are dispersed in the wind.
Within each and every piece of broken glass,
My reflection tells a story.

Claudia Krizay (schizoclaud)