CRACKED

Fingertips touch cold on a broken mirror
that shows too many faces
and feels like the parting glass
between you and I and our torn-out pages.
What was it that we laid on the battleground
staked on brittle words and naive resilience?
Is it through the looking glass,
a barren fairytale, waiting?
I would reach in and take it
but we all know that no amount of sun
can chase away the grays and poltergeists
wrought by something as unforgiving as time.
And then there are the maybe's
the greys and the poltergeists on this side of the glass
that remind me that I couldn't reach in if I wanted to
because somethings that are broken
can not be broken again.