Make Art, Not Shards

And so we wind between our words

like delicate dancing steps.

Beauty is in the eye that sees

but all I see is your shattered glass;

and you refuse to pick up the pieces

of your past, present, and future,

as you disregard my own patchwork

that I see as an art in progress.

Your shards cut when we are close

and I’m afraid of my own glass breaking

by your thoughts in sound waves

and that disapproving stare of ice—

no, jealousy?

.

Oh, my dearest friend.

I share not my window of art

for you to peer in with spite,

nor is my celebration of life

to draw a black hole between us

so you can see a “me versus you.”

I share my window of the world

to show how you too, yes you,

can pick up your pieces of glass

and make art of your own.

When I next glance with my eyes

I wish to see your true colors

that kaleidoscope with life.

.

Yes, I dream of a world

made up of mosaic windows,

and we are the artists

that stand together behind it;

hand in hand.