At the beginning of my troubles
I bought some Christmas baubles,
Exceptionally fine
Shiny crystal bubbles,
I have these shopping foibles
When happiness is mine.
On that day I was light of heart
Affections unattached
Yet on the cusp of change
And now I find I’m torn apart
Tranquillity despatched
Contentment out of range.
When the season turns to winter
Will the baubles be unwrapped
And smashed against the wall?
Will they shatter, will they splinter
When serenity has snapped
And my last defences fall?
These fragile pastel coloured orbs
These weightless glassy spheres
They seem to be myself
A piece of bric-a-brac absorbs
Affective states like loves and fears
Yet stands upon the shelf.
Now glass we know is made of sand
And I am dust and ashes
But still I stopped to buy
And held the bauble in my hand
For glass, although it smashes,
Is the lens before my eye.

May 2013