The bird flies through the moment with a broken wing,
Its eyes blind to a crystal that lies to its advance.
Gracefully yet unapologetically its dull head strikes the glass.
A crack begins to grow like a God seeing rise to a web of rivers.
Such a sightless bird leaves upon the vase a strike,
And from such an impact, quietly bleeds fortitude.
That bird embodied their words and taunts,
And such a vase was the fabric of my sanity.