The first crack is the worst, 
a split second of anticipation, 
anxiously waiting, waiting for 
the dread fall. 

Shards embed themselves into your back, 
severing your spine as time freezes, 
flailing arms reaching for something, anything, 
and the overwhelming feeling of panic 
wrenches itself from your stomach, 
manifesting in a tidal wave of a realization 
that you were not ready 
that you haven't done enough 
that you are not ready. 

There is no more time on the clock 
and all that's left to do is to make peace with
what little has been done,
as you plummet downwards 
towards the truth, lying shattered among  
the once impenetrable lies, the roof of glass.

And there is no scream,
and there is no noise.