Beneath the glass is empty. Hollow. Black.
Only a dismal blanket of refracted light falls sliding across, skimming slick atop.
Stitched heaps of skin pulled taught,
to hide what lies beneath
but lend to serve fresh, bloodied and raw
the false promises of hope and ill asylum.
Beneath the glass, draws fate near.
Cast sight towards the stitches and please try not to listen.
Weary for beneath the glass is where time holds  absolute,
stagnant, and still
Time and the glass, for what it can appear;
hold each others' truths in the remaining fragments of our reality as they crumble of will.
For if the glass shatters, cold veins and warm hands are all we have left
to hold dear.