The Glass Ceiling

Wherever you are:

Stuck on a train,

Mowing the fresh grass,

Morning breakfast turn to waste,

Fixed in beeping horns, and urgent sirens

In bed—blurred lines of melancholy.

Just to be breathing on this crisp morning.

In this shattered world;

Of broken hearts, endless thoughts, shattered dreams—

Look to the glass ceiling,

Hold it—until it can no longer see the sun.