In the center of a house made of glass there is a throne. Adorned with pearls and diamonds and precious stones. With cushions made of silk and golden thread, hand sewn.
In the center of this glass house is where she sits. A glass of merlot in her left hand is what she sips. In an effort to forget that the world exists.
From the center of her glass house she sees them pass and stare. The whole world can see the mess she has made in there. Yet, she’s perched on her throne; seemingly without a care.
As their gazes linger seconds too long, the woman who is watched begins to gather her stones. The passers by refuse to move along.
She displaces her insecurities upon the lookers on. With her stones she seeks to do them harm. Why won’t the passers by move along.
She casts her stones of contention. But they won’t give her redemption. It seems that someone failed to mention…
…what you shouldn’t do from the center of glass homes. She retreats back to her thrown. But inside is where the weeds have grown.
And the passers by invade her space. Stand so close that she can feel their lashes on her face. She wants to flee yet knows they’ll give chase.
As insecurity thickens the air…and she questions if anyone cares…she succumbs to the romantic notion of despair.
One is never alone in a glass house. Lurking eyes always about. All windows and no doors, no easy way out.
There used to be a throne. We all know there were stones. And passers by, who refused to move along.