Shards

A blade may be sharp, yes.

Yes, but far from obsolete.

You could defend. You could preserve.

'Tis the labor of one, the pride of another.

Lest you ever think it idle.

 

Broken glass? 'Tis sharp in the same.

In the same, that it could sever or wound.

It is but the remains of something once valuable.

What purpose does it now serve but to make one

Walk gingerly, or draw in and retreat?

 

I know not who broke them

Nor whose crimson prints clothe them

But I know your words are broken glass to me.

Shards.

Beneath me. Around me. Behind me. Inside me.

S H A R D S

 

12/18/18

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