Photo by Joel Filipe on Unsplash
It was all a funhouse illusion:
warped mirrors, heartache confusion.
Lights twinkle dim in a music cloud,
spinning in a loud delusion.
A glass house I made with these two hands
for a man made of rolling stones
trying to rebuild with broken glass
long after the grace to let go.
Sleeping with dangerous addictions
like murderers without convictions;
losing myself to sparkling quicksand,
sweet owner of my heart’s contusion.
Red portraits painted with bleeding hands
quickly bruise the whitest of snow
A glass house I made with these two hands
for a man made of rolling stones
trying to rebuild with broken glass
long after the grace to let go.
About the Creator
Sara Wynn
"No one knows where the edge of the knife is,
and no one knows what intelligent life is."
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