Glass Hammers
You called your words glass hammers—
When they became too “poetic.”
You said you liked their shape
Because they were beautiful to look at,
Yet you thought them transparent,
Fragile, ill-suited for the job—
But to you, and your ilk,
All poetry is glass hammers.
The poems—and you didn’t
even like the word “poem”—
She wrote in the love she
Harbored for you have become
Her refuge against the silence you
Left her with. Her glass hammers
Stake the heart of indifference.
They nail the coffin of loneliness.
She has struck with glass hammers
And shattered the mask of your grand
Delusion: Its eyeless plaster has fallen
And sharded the ground—but
You are apt to sculpt another
And another until you run out of life force,
Until you spill the last drop of life-juice
In the mud of primal urges.
