J. Lynne Moore
Dainty shards lay on the floor,
Where once there was a glass.
I cut my hand and so much more;
‘Twas not I that committed the trespass.
The wounds were deep and ragged,
And festered as I wept.
Blood tumbled to the floor,
As the shards I gently swept.
Who broke the glass, I know not;
‘Twas shattered before my time,
But here I stand among the lees,
Wasting away my prime.
The fractured ort has been disposed,
The blood washed away by tears.
But the scars from the broken glass
Will adorn me for all my years.
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