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swept to the center of the room.
A hint of what once was
when the thing was whole,
complete and solid.
It no longer holds the promise,
the bright, fresh-squeezed juice
of a new day,
the breaking dawn
or birdsong.
Time hangs
in that hour before dawn
in the stillness of a silent night
in the shatter of a broken vessel.
Shards of jagged glass
in the center of the room.
Stepped over, swept aside,
no longer whole,
complete and solid.
©2011 R.M. Talbot
