There are days where I feel like broken glass,
Where I glisten and gleam in the soft, green grass,
And anyone who dares to tread,
On my resting place is sure to dread,
The pain of a wound that is hot like ice,
And the soul who recieves it will not tread twice.
How ugly a shattered dish can be,
A useless, biting thing like me,
Who injures those to come too near,
The ones who are drawn by my gleaming veneer.
I must wait for someone to hold me just right,
Who can see how I shimmer in the the bright morning light,
Who sees me not as a thing of no value,
And will strive to turn me into something new.
Yes, I am broken beyone all repair,
And those who come close should surely beware,
But, like sculptures, mosaics are works of art,
Of something beautiful, I will be a part.