Through the Glass

Little feet—are those little feet?

Running, tumbling, laughter sweet.

She watches them through dusty panes,

Though names and ties she can’t explain.

Their voices drift like summer air,

She almost remembers… someone… there?

A boy, a girl? Or none at all?

The pictures blur, the memories fall.

Hands in her lap, thin as twigs,

She feels them clutch a void that digs.

Once she held—someone—soft and warm…

But the thought dissolves before it forms.

A ball rolls near, she flinches slight,

Did she once play? Was she once light?

The children shout, a wave, a cheer,

But she’s a ghost—they do not hear.

“Are they mine?” a whisper in her head,

But no answer comes, just silence instead.

Their faces swirl in her fragile mind,

Like leaves in wind, too fast to find.

She blinks. The glass shows only sky.

The children gone—did they say goodbye?

Perhaps they were never there at all,

Just echoes born of a mind’s slow fall.

The sun sinks low, the shadows spread,

She sits unmoving, her thoughts long dead.

Beyond the glass, life dances free,

While she remains—adrift at sea.