I wonder looking through the glass,
Am I more broken or it?
Are my pieces as delicate as it lies?
Or are they as sharp edged as mine within?
Like fingers touch these shards and bleed,
Will I too hurt and bleed from within?
They may replace this glass, some day,
But what do we do with a broken heart?
Why is it made so delicate then,
When there is no replacement or a guarantee?