Snippets of madness
lines drawn in the sand
fatalistic despair waiting for the tide
that must come in.

Glass slipping from the fingers.

A weight of choices pressed down
nightmares of futures that might be;
vain hopes stir (too late, like all hopes)
wishing that what was can change.

The pristine white floor gleams so far away.

What use tears? what use bitterness?
we each dig our own graves
while tides rise unstoppable, consuming,
leaving no place left to run.

The glass strikes the ground, darkness embracing it,
light reflecting a multitude of fractures.

The bottom is beneath your feet
there is no place deeper to fall
no way to hide from yourself
all that is left to do is rise on crooked wings.

The glass bounces, chipped.

The tides strike but you stand firm
your ground all you have left
only when stripped of choices are you free.

The glass rolls into shadows, unbroken.

The tide washes away the drawn lines
the boundaries melt or merge;
despair remakes you and dares others
to see you as you see yourself.
Worthless.

The glass lies in the shadows, cracked and flawed.

The tide diminishes but another will come
the next one that may end this
for there is nothing left in you to meet it.
Apathetic hands pick up the glass slowly
knowing the next drop will break it.

- Josh MacLeod, 2001.