Where Is My Angel?

As I lay, bound to my easy chair
by threads of rain, too blind;
unable to measure the fullness
of the melting personality glass

I look out of my glass jar
Seamless boundaries are what I see.
Maybe it’s a transparent illusion,
(metaphor: a mirage for the truly thirsty!)
willing to break at the pressure of will.

Continents, dreams, jobs, possibilities-
all hanging by invisible attachments.
Bearings or nooses?
I am too confused to decide.

Glass should be shattered, cataract treated-
Even if only to injure or see.
This life is but one and this time-
I’ll dress up as my own angel.

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