The Glass Heart
She arose, mid-winter, in the east
With frost clinging to her eyelashes.
Her brittle beauty enamoured,
While her glass heart rattled with
The absence of love.
She arrived, always in a gust, with
Glistening skin that seemed luminous
In the shadows; a delicate trick of
The light to deceive all into believing
Her confidence was real.
She was the master of disconnection,
Luring and releasing those who did
Not adhere to her will; until, as if
From Eden, he planted part of him
Inside her to bloom.
She felt the tautness of her belly,
And her glass heart slowly filled with
Something that felt a little like love,
Threatening to shatter the restrictions
Which punctuated her world.
She birthed an extension of herself,
A form of love outside her body, but
The old pull to wintry world-weariness
Won out and, before long, her glass heart
Clinked empty in her breast.
She spent so much time resisting all
Opportunities life gave her to love,
To appreciate, to celebrate - unless
Conditions were perfect for her - so
Life struck her down.
She hovered over her form, then, and
Saw the shards of her glass heart in her
Broken body: heavy, useless, alone in a
Chair; and all those she had pushed away
No longer cared.
She realised her greatest fears and tried
To drown herself in pity, resentfulness,
Regrets. What good is it to possess a talent
For creating beauty when, in the end, it
Yields to heartless glass?
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