Notes About The Poem
An exploration of deep grief, heartbreak, and emotional paralysis contrasting the internal weight of loss with an indifferent, fast-moving outside world.
My Wings Are Broken Glass
The clock ticks on, a slow and hollow sound,
In rooms where ghostly laughter used to dwell
The silence is a weight that drags me down,
A tethered soul within a private hell.
I trace the empty space upon the bed,
The ghost of warmth that faded with the light,
And weave the tangled ruins in my head
Of promises we whispered to the night.
It is not sharp, the blade that cuts the core,
But dull and heavy, like a rusted chain;
A slow erosion of the ocean floor,
The endless, rhythmic pulsing of the rain.
The world continues, frantic, bright, and loud,
While I am wrapped within a leaden shroud.
The mirror shows a stranger’s weary gaze,
Eyes that have forgotten how to shine,
Lost in the thicket of these aimless days,
Where every street-lamp marks a jagged line.
I try to speak, to call across the vast,
But words are brittle things that become dust;
The future is an echo of the past,
Corroded by the bitter film of rust.
The heart—that sturdy muscle, fierce and grand—
Is now a bird with wings of broken glass,
Trying to rise above the shifting sand,
Watching the seasons of the spirit pass.
It beats a frantic, solitary drum,
Waiting for a dawn that never comes.
The ache is physical—a hollow chest,
A phantom pressure where your hand should be,
Denying every avenue of rest,
An anchor dropped within a soundless sea.
It is a thirst that water cannot slake,
A hunger for a feast that turned to ash,
The slow, inevitable, lingering break,
The quiet aftermath of thunder’s crash.
So, I remain, a ruin in the gale,
Reading the ink of some forgotten tale,
By a fire that died because we never cared—
Or perhaps we cared too much, and burned it clean,
Leaving the scorched and barren space between.
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