the museum of glass

I built a gallery inside my chest,

To house the things I couldn't keep.

The way you laughed before the end,

The secrets we promised we’d reap.

But the walls are made of brittle ice,

And the floor is slick with salt.

Every time I try to walk through,

The architecture finds a fault.

To remember is to shatter,

To look is to be cut.

I am the curator of a ghost town,

With every exit firmly shut.

Reviews

[emmajoygreen]

A sadness of faults. a chain of disappointment, a finish that stays with you. What a woeful poem, even though its meter is so very good.

'But the walls are made of brittle ice,
And the floor is slick with salt.
Every time I try to walk through,
The architecture finds a fault.'