The world is only but a glass,
a perfect glass through which we see
we come gazing at images
though not the the real we

The real is only but a reflection
reflections through a glass
stained by foggy disillusionments
and yet so desirable to break

In these glasses we contain ourselves
Us of souls seemingly aware
In words we speak of breaking through
But of truth we never care

Why we righteous ourselves
who are we to judge others
we know not them in real
Not even an inch of who we are

We have never been the real us
many centuries may come and pass
we speak and act, and yet we don’t
For all because of a glass

This glass is the world,
The world is only but a glass

This poem was written/submitted by Claire Lacsento.