Sticks, Stones and Glass Window Pains.

 Sticks, Stones and Glass Window Pains.

 

I’m a stone painted like a man, rolling along among glass shaped like people. 

 “Tell me what you’re made of...” I shout as they wander near me.”... for I am not for the weak and cowardly.”   “Oh I’m so durable and tough, I can endure the hardest stuff” they reply. “If what you say is true, we can walk together a while” and with each turn stone scrapes glass and the pressure cracks . The glass streaks back in horror “You’re a monster you are, and I’m scared you’ll destroy me. It’s not safe to be near you.” The men of sticks and woman of twigs snap at attention at the scene, They bark their disdain and dicontentment at the solitary rock.  “I’m so mad” they say. “You’re so wrong and out of line” they cry. 

 I’m a stone painted like a man that has broken foremost the illusions of what glass people see, both as themselves as, and how they see me. They shout that I’m the monster, ignrong half the facts. The how and why become irrelivant. Motives just stain perceptions framing broken windows. Broken things are better left un touched.  I was glass once too. I was pressed down by truth and cowardice. I was tempered with pressure and time. Now I’m a stone with the face of a man scaring the village folk by being direct with them. 

 

 

 

 aint that some weak shit.