We are all born in a jar
(with a view of Mother from afar)
and it’s the glass we learn to see through;
refining me while defining you.
Those poor souls whose glass is opaqued
with smudges of fear and cracks of hate,
who never learn to see through
the jar that defines me and contains you;
they are the ones who hope and pray
that you only see your world in their way.
As these souls bloat too large to be contained
they burst the boundaries and are profaned
by the sharp edges of the jar
their rage casts the jagged pieces of;  near and far.
But if, instead, our soul transcends
like light that remains unshattered but only bends
through the glass of our individual jar
and gives a glimpse of just how far
we have, yet, to go and have come:
What beauty, what symphony
we can glimpse more clearly
and ourselves more nearly
when we are willing to see ourselves, ajar.