the story of my death poetry interruption: Glassed In

Endless groping
through the dense hollow vacuum of
nothing where everything lies
but cannot be reached, ceaseless
perpetual ventures into the beyond
just beside us, just outside
our grasp, outside
of the thick
glass boxes that protect
and divide, that instantly,
will shatter into trillions of
infinitesimal splinters and specks at the
slightest breach; a house of cards, yet
a shelter nonetheless.
And all these, the cells of
safety, our very own dainty
glass menagerie, pretty, perfect
and sterile to the untouch
of the human condition, keep us steady,
and stagnant, and stoic, as we
suffocate inside ourselves,
our scrupulously sculpted glass rooms,
less we shatter their sublime structure
and risk exposure
to the breath of
the other.