Aubade

Early morning light filters in
through the window's glass,
revealing dancing dust particles.
It's one of those
abstract beautiful things
that just elude your grasp.

But the woman by the window cannot grasp
the beauty of sunlight that filters in;
she is too shocked to notice things
like early morning scenes visible through glass
windows; it's one of 'those'
mornings; her heart has been shattered to particles.

Her heart has been shattered to particles
too sharply painful for her mind to grasp,
gather and repair logically. Those
paroxysms of angry grief have started raging in
her mind. His betrayal is transparent as glass:
he has gone with all his things.

He has gone with all his things:
there remain no particles
of his memory to break like a glass.
If one damned thing would come in her grasp
it would be destroyed to ashes and chucked in
the bin of her memory: it would break all those

spells he cast on her, those
spells that bewitched her to abandon all things
and fling herself across the globe to join him in
a faraway land with no approval of others, no particles
of a souvenir of love to grasp
safely in her hand, to nurse like delicate glass.

Her innocence was  transparent as glass
when he, one of those
dirty handsome men, set out to grasp
on tightly to her, a beautiful 'thing'
to keep, with not a single particle
of love in his heart. He has left her to wake up in

a lonely land, to grasp reality cold as glass;
his particle-seed had inflicted major damage: 'unwanted things',
twins to be born to her in of those dreary December mornings.