(liberté)
“man is nothing else but that which he makes of himself”
smeared with
blood from our palms and feet,
our
tears of glass fall and glimmer
on
a mess of broken mirrors
in
endless cells of hollow stone.
with only the
walls before us,
we forget laughter
stuffed with straw,
the cold of envy’s
leering look,
and the awkward smiles of
match-sticks.
yet
still we piece each fragment back
and
stitch expressions onto faces,
whilst our
fragile hearts wince and moan
amidst
the snickering of chains.
in
hollow cells of endless stone
we clothe
ourselves with their shadows:
for we
are broken yet still we build;
for
we are re-built yet still broken.
By Ben Stupples
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