The Frame

Don’t cry over broken windows,
If you don’t know where they go.
Or what’s on the other side,
Don’t wonder why it’s shattered.
Or if it ever even mattered to anyone.
If the reflection wasn’t strong enough.
The breeze could caress
And kiss, the jagged edges.
But what’s the difference?
It still cuts the feet of perching birds,
It still cuts the wind and sings,
It still frames her face.
The one who looks out from the inside.
The one that holds time and ivy,
In her clinched fists,
As it overgrows the blades of glass,
And twirls around her fingertips.
The flowers blooming in her hair,
but she’s not there,
And nobody cares,
Except the one fool,
The one who sees the imperfect image,
And reforms the puzzle pieces,
In his heart, that violent mystery,
The lines of history, nothing but empty veins now,
Between what is left, and what is dead forever.
With a cut in his thumb, he fills them with blood,
And pretends this is love.
But, what’s the difference?