Dirt
Bloodstained
Windowpane,
Light like
Lipstick
Gloss-touched
And here I sit,
Fingertips
Stilled,
Distilled,
Maybe,
Into something
Clearer,
Cleaner
Than this
Metal framed
Bar-roughed
Body
Of a
Looking glass
I’d shatter,
If I could…
Transparent
Only for a
Moment
When wiped
Away-
It screams
“Don’t touch me!”
So I don’t,
I distill
Myself
Into something
Cleaner,
Clearer,
Maybe
And I sit,
And sit,
And sit
At the sill-
Can’t see;
Maybe
I couldn’t
See
To begin with
And it’s me,
Not the glass
That is so dirty.
Copyright © Alex Grimm | Year Posted 2017
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