Glass

Artwork by Taylor Daniels

Artwork by Taylor Daniels

I sat alone

at a table,

in room of glass.

Perched on the table,

a bottle,

tightly corked,

a script etched in its side.  

I stare at the bottle,

and it back at me,

imagining what may

rest inside.

I think

and

meditate

and

ponder

and

wonder

,

And then wonder and ponder and meditate and think,

“What’s inside this damn bottle? If only I knew, if only.”

Shake it, slosh

Held to light, opaque

Smell it, glass-

-I’m an idiot.

I kept seated,

fearing the

reverberations of movement

in the room, of

glass as thin

as fresh ice.

 

Over and again,

I read the scripted expression,

You’re always in me, but I am passing you.

You think you hear me, see me, feel me too.

But I don’t mind, that’s where I live.

Creation of your kind, infinite insignificance.

Over and again,

I held the bottle,

inspecting,

interpreting,

and replacing.

 

Through glass walls,

the sun surges

and sinks.

The moon waxes

and wanes.

In time

the glass walls grew thick,

blotting out the sun

and the moon.

In time,

the label blurred.

In time,

I wondered until

I starved

for my senses.

I wondered until

wonder became custom,

custom became apathy,

and apathy became loathing.

In time,

time was lost.

In time,

I too became glass.

 

Until one day,

full of self-

deprecation,

I squeezed the bottle

until it shattered

between my fingers,

and from pained lips,

a big bang,

the glass room

raining to my feet.

And I,

covered in light

of sun and moon,

felt loathing melt into wonder

soft night air ran

cool across my tongue,

and around me

were glass rooms,

of whom,

shattered and rained

with big bangs,

while others sat,

waiting.

 

for a noise,

a taste,

a sound.