Spill

To have to stare at distances far away through my heart
as it shatters each time the details blow up touching the thin membrane
of glass a thousand times brittle,
I pick up my glasses and perch them on my nose,
waiting to see those flowing images ahead
and not having to pass through pain;
with the next gust of wind, it shuts down.
Senses.
I hear myself say that this is the only way I can see the happenings
unless I pluck the bosom that lies within and
throw it out in the raging rains I hoped to play in.
But then, with it goes my heart;
ripped  apart
spilling blood.

                                          Image from the internet

Hemu