My Face Reflecting In a Glass

my face reflecting in a glass was small; the face looked sure, was sensible, yet appeared to be a kind of abashed, intimidated and embarrassed, as the glasses add up one, two and more and more moon rises, clouds drift, and the wind passes to stir up the glass rippled brim over and as glasses grow taller the thunder roars on the flower bloomed field, the chirr of crickets slowly diminishes, covered with fallen leaves, then the blizzard, carried by the north wind, raving through the wilderness where the ruins all have abandoned then, when the glasses come crumbling down because of the height of the weight, my face with the whole of sorrow from a prolonged time of mistreatment and abuse reflecting on each and every scattered piece of broken glass tears to fill the gap between the world of reality and illusion