of all the things to lose today, my mind.
it seems clear— living in a glass house,
the shades of opaque burgundy and rum
spill over the shine and all that's left is
curiosity.
for things less than what they seem;
or more?
no secrets in this house.
what wonder.
what wonderful ideas could arise
from the ashes of
burning glass?
a phoenix of worry and—
and—
…
sputtering lies froth from the death
of love and life and maybe—
maybe that glass was Reason?
there's too much brittle muttering.
they scrape against my hands and i can only think:
what if those clear walls were paint?
a blank façade of more-than it should be;
and less.
and if it could be worse?
how can i ruin more than just shards
of this fragile menagerie?
curiosity.