Gods Made of Glass

I want to lie still for hours
and grapple with the knots
till this tangled web of notions
produces a single thread of thought.
That my mind may then follow,
deliberately, as it wends,
from the starting point
to the inexorable end.
I was able to do this once,
in another lifetime,
before I was enslaved
by the sound of a chime.

I want to experience the moment,
in every facet of its form.
The electricity in the air
that promises an approaching storm.
The aroma wafting from the earth,
that the parting summer infused.
A sky painted black,
in innumerable gray hues.
The first drops of water
forming a cool spray.
But my mind has wandered off,
seeking messages in a tray.

I want to connect with a stranger
and listen to his woes.
See the world he lives in,
the choices that he chose.
How do I count the ghosts,
of friendships I have spurned,
in the silence left behind
by the glance unreturned?
I’d like to share what is human
beneath our separate masks
instead we bow in mute silence
to our Gods made of glass.

One clap, two clap, three clap, forty?

By clapping more or less, you can signal to us which stories really stand out.