Shades of white, enclosed in proportional lines of black.
Intersecting. Perfect, just as you want them to be.
Inviting and welcoming.
Yet also unwelcoming.
The glass, supposedly clear, was opaque.
Because it was what others thought suited for it.
Never seeing the other face.
It closes itself to lying vagueness.
Sunlight strikes through it, just as laughter resonates through lungs.
Raindrops pierces, just as tears also does.
Just as sunlight is visible yet it is faint.
Just as raindrops strikes but the dews remain unseen.
We, a visible window to others.
We, with signs of rust we try to conceal.
We, who put on muzzy fronts that others want to see.
We, who are just glass, ready to break and fall down.