At break of day our eyes will close.
We pray that soon the sun will go,
To hide behind a moon that glows.
We pray that soon the falling snow,
Will conceal the ground below,
Which opens up and swallows us whole.
We will not be forgotten, though.

Our stories are read by those who are late,
And they will know of our mistakes,
And be smart enough to slam on brakes,
For finally they know the stakes,
And refuse to follow in the fate,
Of a world consumed by floods of hate,
Where all we know disintegrates.

And all that's left is Dust.

There are days when I feel like Broken Glass,
Where I glisten and gleam in the soft, green Grass.
And Anyone who dares to tread,
On my resting Place is sure to dread,
The Pain of a wound that is Hot like Ice,
And the Soul who receives it will not tread twice.

How ugly a shattered Dish can be.
A useless, biting Thing like Me,
Who injures those who come too Near.
Those Souls who are Drawn by my gleaming veneer.

I must Wait for someone to hold me just right,
Who can see how I shimmer in Bright, morning light.
Who sees me not as a Thing of no value,
And will Strive to turn me into something New.

Yes, I am Broken beyond repair,
And those who come close should Surely beware.
But Mosaics too are works of Art.
Of something Beautiful, will I be a part.