Wilton Won the One

Even the pores of the glass shards whispered a shimmer. Halted upon, as if each individual fragment had been forced to freeze mid shatter. In passing, perhaps the glimmer could be likened to that of a diamond chandelier. Though if one were to gaze onward, to look past the beauty of such stillness. Just maybe, they would see the truth. The truth of coarseness that enveloped each grain, the truth of the pristine deviancy of sharpness each shard held. If they were to peer even further than that, past all, and gaze upon their own single shard. They could find, naked to the eye, an un birthed key. Covered beneath the depths and boils of their own skin. Glimmering a facade of delusion like hysteria.  From un-birth to birth unto longing, to unfolding lamentations, and then tripping to death. The key will always ponder its own endless existence, and in that moment, all the shards suddenly fell.