To A Friend Something hard was breaking: glass, wood, or bones,
or maybe hearts,
all barren ice and stone.
Gripping onto something whole,
I feel too close but still alone.
Something hard is breaking,
crashing down from broken homes,
and as I pick up shattered pieces,
the tender touch my bleeding slows;
the tears in blood they mingle
into clear and crimson flows,
after every word that's spoken,
and as these wounds begin to close,
or some of us, we stay broken,
it's a pain that no longer shows.
Though numb, my heart is open.
- Joseph H Eveld
11