Broken Glass

Strange are the ways,

of shattered glass,

better left broken at times,

than held, in hurting caress.

But we hold no grudge,

we yield to reason,

it was not the day,

just was not the season.

But it isn't our failing,

that we obey our heart,

that the meaning in our eyes,

forked wide apart.

But can scattered pieces,

and but a spoonful of glue,

bear the drops again,

and stop the spew?

The day may never come,

or maybe isn't yet here,

when we dare blow at dust,

settled deep on a crusted tear.

Strange are the ways,

of shattered glass,

better left broken?

than held, in hurting caress?