• I look upon the shards of glass,
    That lay crying beneth my feet.
    I pick the shattered peices,
    And place them in a mold
    Though no mold is fit enough for
    These peices of broken pain.
    As I snatch up each shard
    Fingers start to bleed,
    And heart starts to race.
    The affliction begins to set,
    I advance my work further
    Until I see the reflection
    The wounds start to heal
    As I look upon the puzzle
    of tattered, cracked glass
    I see the other side
    The looks I get from it
    Tell me that prize is true