Morning slips across my windowsill,
leaving me waking dreams, no longer
grand or magical, no more high adventures
or terrible dreams of greed and glory,
just the tedious reworkings of my all-too-real

life, now that I must admit I’ll never fly
or kiss a demon–the world is rock.
Far more fortunate than Columbus,
the crystal ball has found the edge
where the world curls under like a fist.

Shards scattered, its bright dust has blown.
Bored and desperate, I search under my bed
amid the magazines and dirty socks for any remnant.
Finding a sliver, I stare into its hollow facets,
and worry it between my fingers until blood

obscures its frightful clarity.

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