I live in a stained glass house.
A fragile structure built to be destroyed.
Cement slowly decaying
letting the little shards of tainted glass
fall
piece
by
piece
Reds and Blues attacking the ground
with a delicate and sudden shatter.
There are no brooms.
There are no streets.
The echo outlives any other voice
any other form of sanity.
Maybe no other one is needed.