A stiff collar
Laden with sweat,
Droplets straining to reach the ground;
They are hindered
By these plaid obstructions.
A broken window
Dripping with crimson,
Rivers of red searching for the soil.
They yearn to return
From whence they came,
Leaving red rum rivulets;
Stains upon the windowpane.
This scene
Could belong to anyone,
But it is currently in the hands
Of a boy.
And if windows were mirrors
He would see himself
Panting
Slowly,
With his hands on his knees,
Wishing it all away.
"Wishes don't come to little boy's,
And certainly not to killers."
That's what his mother would say
If she were still alive,
But he will never hear her again.
All it took was one night,
One night where it all went too far.
Being sent over
Is far too easy,
They say the precipice is sharp
Over the edge of chaos.
All the pain inside
Was hypocritical
And selfish,
True.
But did that make it
Any less real to him?
Do all these feelings
That were spoonfed to him
Not count?
It's not his fault
If the spoon was dropped
On the way to the maw,
And now the taste will forever elude him;
Romance without a start.
And if windows were mirrors
A mother would be crying,
Because her little boy can no longer hear her.
And if windows were mirrors
A little boy would not be ten feet below one,
Lying still on cold dark pavement.
If windows were mirrors
This scene could not exist,
Because the abilty to see
One's self,
Without flaw or lable,
Is the abilty to breathe itself.
So let's all inhale.
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Submission Name: If Windows Were Mirrors
