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There is a beach made from glass. It sits pristine, shining, tranquil. It is calm and unbothered by such things as time and storm and death, and it plays with the shells and sings to the water.

A hurricane's fury crashes against a beach made from glass. The eye cracks, a window to a soul, lines spiderwebbing through its surface. Water leaks through, dripping down the glass like blood rolling down scarred flesh. The glass resists, trying to knit itself together but it is not cloth, easily mended. The storm's rage is too much. The glass shatters.

There is a beach of broken glass. It sits jagged, wary and unwelcoming. It knows pain, it recognises fear, it understands despair. It screams at the ocean and cuts the feet of unsuspecting strangers. It cuts the hands of those who just want to help and the hearts of those who love it.

Quiet rains weather away at a beach of broken glass. Falling droplets cleanse the salt and dirt and silt from the jagged shards and soften their cutting edges. Prevent them from hurting the others broken bits and pieces of itself. Slowly the rains soften the hard edges and turn the broken glass into sand, one day at a time.

There is a beach covered in sand. It sits soft, relaxing, enticing. It has stared death in the face and plainly said no. It has changed, slowly, so slowly that no one notices until it is completely different.

"Why have you changed?" they ask. They forget that the quiet rains are just as good for metamorphosis as a rushing hurricane, given time and space. "We did not want you to change," they say. They are too caught up in themselves to think that you, too, are a person.

There is a beach covered in sand. It was a beach of broken glass, once, and before even that it was a beach made from glass. Now the sand wears down broken glass beneath it, which cuts the solid plane of pure, unsullied glass. Above it all the sun shines bright and hot and the sand on top becomes glass again, and the glass far below waits sad but resigned for a new pane to shatter. A new page to be turned, and ink to be spilled mercilessly across it, too.
more prose poetry!
Raven Feels Apr 2021
DEAR PENPAL PEOPLE, just take a moment and appreciate the long journey that you've survived-it's the glory of a lifetime you can't sell nor buy;>


look how far have you gone

childish plays and dolls now all defined a woman grown

stars you wished upon did not shoot the shot you scored

yet gave you a lot than wisdom of twinkles and more

even better for a future of a strong self and bold

all those lonely nights in the lousy storms

turned out to be embraced by your daemons to a joyous old soul

one of a kind with struggles that no one knows to cherish to hold

ought for you to breathe and live and carry and mold

on your own blossomed and snowed

through summer bosoms and winters and highs and lows

through hells and heavens and sweet merciless hollows

anticipate in you a tomorrow of fruitful stores

things to save up for the upcoming open doors


                                                         ­                               --------ravenfeels
Raven Blue Sep 2020
I made a glass wall;
To see things clearly and to protect myself.
But all through this years;
I was drowning with fear.
I wasn't sure anymore,
If this things were all true;
I feel blue.
But what can I do?
After all, I made this wall.
But when I saw it get shattered;
I actually felt relieved.
Kewayne Wadley Mar 2018
And like broken glass
The secrets intensify.
The vulnerability of time.
Both beautiful and sad.
The sound of broken glass.
Despite how beautiful the shards sparkle.
Despite time.
You'll never know what's on it's mind.
Hand to glass.
The prints left behind to be washed away.
The memories no more.
How can something so precious be replaced for another.
Thrown away without second thought.
It's cruel, unjust.
No explanation other than physical appearance.
The unhealthiest to cope.
The necessity of momentary need.
Another glass set in it's place.
To feel needed in a moment of thirst.
How we feel about the things we have.
Until we realize the one thing we need.
Almost too late
jayant om Feb 2018
You were that devastating thunderstorm
which, was the most beautiful tragedy happened to me
we are not together now, as it was never on the cards.
nothing is fine and I am worst without you
I don't want you anymore (I say)
I need you, in every step (I know)
You were that endless joy
which is now endless pain
I tried to forget all the moments spent with you
and, ended up in, remembering you all the times
those also were tears which never came out from my eyes
the pain was also that which I never told.

I remember all those dreams
which, we wove together
they were lovely.

I remember the soft touch of your lips, that naïve shamelessness  
I remember everything
I remember all that happened
I remember all the things

I remember that rain in which,
we got drenched together
there was a flame inside us
while we were soaked (In the droplets of rain)
what was that carelessness,
In those moments spend together which passed, yet not passed

I remember such evenings (we spent together)  
when you slept by my side
I kept looking at you,
I remember everything
I remember all that happened
I remember all the things
I am that broken glass which never binds
Maeiby Jun 2017
I'm, but a bottle of vintage wine.
Preserved for long,
For an occasion, so perfect.
Over time, it has been,
The star of the wardrobe.
He kept it with pride.
And finally, the day came, so awaited.
And stood there, that wine glass so beautifully with grace.
As it, would hold the precious of all, in it.
Like a lady in grace,
And her curves so pristine,
Beauty that falls so spontaneously.
Lady, you fail to know.
They stare at you, those men,
They dream of you, from far.
And their greedy souls, How they long for you.
Can't you see?
And, a moment of pause.
Then he pours, the wine.

And that moment changed it all.

Down it fell,
Into the white marbled floor.
Breaking into countless pieces,
Of fine glass crystals, sharp enough.
To cut through,
All in its way.
But, more sharp it was in his heart,
And soul.
The wine, red, stained the floor.
Ah, that remains.
How, it shattered,
And what it was preserved for.
That, it cannot be, recollected.
It gave him, a pain,
Making a mark( too deep).
And it was true,
That he never bought one, again.
He feared, it'll fall down again.
How he couldn't hold one in his hands, anymore.

I'm, but that glass of wine,
Broken.
All into many pieces.
Urmila Sep 2014
They were shattered pieces of glass,
In a jar I had kept away,
I thought I'd use them,
To create an artefact some day,
You found the jar in my closet,
I told you with this jar don't play,
You said you could make something beautiful,
With my shattered glass and your clay,
Then you made a masterpiece,
Your art had a metamorphic way
And although you broke your own creation,
Thank you, is all I could say

— The End —