Glass. You see through it.
Glittering, clasp it. Crush it,
scatter red stained shards. Reflect.

Windows reflect a little: spirit
mirrors. Listen, hear your breath
going yellow at the edges.

Death's thin spirit, quite crushed
lingers as a filter in the glass,
turning any moonlight tasteless blue.

Spirit feeling healing hands,
see the glittering window boundary,
an edge of you, silver shards beyond.

Moon Cloud