That night I did cry,
That night in July,
As I read the note which told me of the demise
Of the man made of glass
Who lived atop the mountains, so high.

His prismous chest lay in pieces
Upon the rocks
Which never knew his name.
And the light he reflected for so many years
Never again would know their singular form,
And they scattered their rainbows
On the blanket of water below.

For the summer, before,
All he had known
Was the new cougar in the jungle below
Who sat and watched
And swirled its long tail
Through the glass man’s light.

The golden cougar lay still
With its tail so long
And lifted its paw
And purred when it saw
The man atop the tall hill.

And the man did grin
But knew not of the sin
Which awaited the summer sun.

The next day he awoke
With the sun in his chest
To find a golden cougar
Licking his smooth, glass toes.
It purred and it purred
And its tail was so long.
And the man’s mouth formed a crescent.

The cougar swirled its long tail
And nipped at his toes
And clawed at his shins
And scratched at his knees;
But the man made of glass
He let it all pass
Although his feet grew frail.

“Could this be real?”
Did this cat feel
The skin of the man
Made of glass?

“I feel like a man!”
And each day he ran
To see his idol feline.

And this went on for weeks
And the day of which my note speaks
Came with a whip of the cougar’s long tail.

“I’m bored,” purred the cat
“And just for some fun
We can go up and run
To blot out the sun.”

The man didn’t fret
Thought his feet felt so wet
And he nodded at the cat
For peace for him
Came in the form of a rat.

They ran up the mountainside
And looked down at the tide
Which beckoned to them below.
But the man need not worry,
Said the cougar,
“It’s all just for show.”
And she playfully nipped at his ankle.

At this the man heard a noise
And began losing his poise
And felt the wind on his face.
He saw patterns on the approaching rocks
Brought from his chest;
And his shattered ankle to the left of his head.

On the cliff top, above
The man could make out a golden figure
Swirling its long tail.
And it was this action
Of fatal attraction
Which noted the fast growing refraction
Appearing on the beach below.

And with a frail hand,
He wrote in the sand
“We are not the players
On the stage of the world.
We are the riotous crowd
With tickets in hand,
And we can be shattered with but
One,
Single
Word.