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This poem is tittled: The Glass

I see through the window
a person in pain.
She needs a small place
so she can stay sane.

Her mind drifted off,
her senses are numb.
She shows through the window
what I have become.

Through the glass a soul cries
feeling heavy and hollow
while they see as she dies
her path I now follow.

Split in two, I can see
as her face starts to pale.
I cannot feel more glee
as her strength starts to fail.

Realization and grief
come out of thin air.
Stealing life like a thief,
leaving emptiness there.

Won’t someone please help us?
Her eyes are my own.
Her features match mine.
We share the same soul.

THE WISHING STONE

I'd found a "wishing stone" on the beach
and bent to pick it up. The hollow in the
stone, smooth like glass, t'was not a reach
to imagine the wishes made in times past.

The hollow made smooth by many thumbs
having rubbed it while making wishes.
Into every life sometimes a miracle comes.
It is told a wishing stone helps with that.

As I rubbed the stone I'd though of how
ridiculous such a belief truly was.
I scorned the idiocy and still, just then
I found myself making a wish anyway!

I had wished the stone would really work,
and hoped it had truly helped someone.
While rubbing it I felt like a total jerk,
but my thumb continued to rub away.

I've had the stone now for forty years.
You're probably asking "does it work?"
All I know is it has soothed my tears.
When life drug me down, it seemed to help.

Fanciful? Probably... but what's the harm
in bringing comfort by whatever means?
In rubbing a stone until it feels warm.
Wishing upon it brings no one grief.

I stand on the beach and return the stone
to the waves, to it's home in the sea.
Knowing it will someday find another
to comfort. Just as it gave comfort to me.