Another shattered window pain-
torn aside to show me
the mirror that is my tattered soul

I'm dying inside a little more
with each crimson dawn's
unholy light.

I've got a dustpan,
but alas, no broom-
who will help me
to sweep up the shards?

The shards of my heart
are cracking to bits-
are falling to the floor,
shattering on cool porcelain-
and me without a broom.

Who will help me pick up the pieces?


 
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