Glass

A poem, which I started writing a while back and will either sound very literary, very depressing or just very awful:

Glass shatters into shards,

Which slip against each other, catching

Jagged edge to jagged edge.

They scratch and scrape,

Silky, dangerous; slipping, slicing,

And screeching, eerie, rough,

Each grainy edge rubs

Against another, never smooth.

Friction-burning-screeching

Drawing blood, dripping down

And staining.

Red-smears on smooth surface

Spreading out, uneven on the slipping-sliding glass

Fragments.

Transparent films of crimson,

See through one side, turn ninety degrees:

Opaque. Still the screeching, still slicing,

Deeper red now, darker, translucent,

Nothing but red-stain, no image beyond,

Just pain and broken glass.