The Glass Man's City

Ready is the bullet

That dreams,
In its cell.

A single instant of meaning,
Sends an angel to hell.
Its existence to kill,
Never reused,
A sole single object,
Lives to be abused.

Not quite unlike

The lonelier side
Of a looking glass,
Where a single man’s eye,
Watches everyone pass,

He saw the homeless man,
Ignored,
Innocuous,
As a child
While his paper mache’ city becomes noticeably wild,

The looking glass man is fascinated,

As the Pipers play,
And they fiddle away,
And their followers come,
But they don’t come to stay,
They follow not the piper,
No, nor their dreams,
They follow the sound of people,
Lonely, as it seems
And the traveling artist follows unknowingly,
Continually bonded,
To his usual regime.

And the looking glass man puts his glasses away,
After seeing the young brother kneel down to obey,
After noting the drug of perfunctory way,
He spies the hammer of his youth,
And he’s ready to play.

He wonders whether the city will tear itself down,
As they scamper by,
Misdirected like ants,
Yet inversely significant,
In their "humanity" rants,

Grasping the hammer at its hilt,
Letting tears to the ground,
The man cries,
“I’ll let them live for today,
Until tomorrow comes around...”