A little like poetry

Crack of dawn, like the crack in a mirror

They told me once,
that when the world cracked open
we would see the souls
of the weakest.
The souls of those who couldn't survive this world,
or were not given a chance to.
"You can hear them," she said.
The crying of the unborn,
the calling of the abandoned,
the screaming of the ones too brave to live.
"Can't you?" she asked.
Because it's sewn into the lining of the sky,
hidden in its pockets
and holding on to rain.
"They're scared," I tell her, "of letting go."

We're crying the same sounds, you see.
Screaming and laughing, just like they are.
Maybe I can't hear them,
but I can hear us.
Clear as the glass pieces we put to our mouths.

And we don't need to wait
for the world to crack open to see.
They're in our mirrors before we break them,
and even after.

"They know," I tell her.
That they might be the weakest of souls,
But they're still stronger than us.

(c) xoxoCharis Vera @ 12:30:00 AM