Bleeding Liquid Glass
I wield a fist that has shattered glass, leaving in its wake
Shards strewn across the crimson splatter
lining the sink where I weep
sinking,
sinking,
sinking down into
An ocean of past blood in a War of the Worlds,
Culture bleeding through a face, shining through tired eyes,
Seeing a dearth of purpose among the jaded
While the real men and women bleed
But because I have not bled,
I am unworthy
Sobbing into the bathroom sink’s filling pool of water
This elixir of life feeds my body,
Composed of organic sinew pulling on the bones of
Dante,
Lovelace,
Chavez,
Beethoven,
Elizabeth I into the tome of history, while
I am torn apart between the future of promise
And the status quo of perpetually being lost
Because where do I stand? I am humbled,
Beaten down, never knowing
Where do I fit like that missing
Shard on the mirror of my face, like that missing
Land splintering into the abyss of my future
Maybe
Maybe
If I fill that chasm, that empty crack in the mirror,
Denying the corpse in the mirror as I scream:
I know who I am and
I don’t know who I am and
I know what I do and
I don’t know why I do it and
I no longer know where I belong and
Even worse
I don’t know where I am going
While the Hemingways and Curies seem to know
While all I could ask myself is:
How did they know?
I envision those crinkled eyes
Of my older self looking back from
The other side of the same mirror,
Back at his youth’s naïveté, and I look at him
With earnest, as he stares through the past
Shattering the mirror again and finding
Which shards clicks into the hole
And maybe not knowing is alright
Because I still wield that proud fist,
bandaged and bathed in the wine of epiphany
Dripping onto the bathroom linoleum
Reflecting my niche
Between two worlds
And thus, I turn away from the mirror
And finally face the bathroom door;
The knob is always turning
As the blood flows on