Tuesday, 10 July 2012

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.