Sandpaper

Shards of broken glass scatter on all sides as I hit the ground rolling, then running, hating and loving all at the same time and wondering where all the wine that used to refill itself in the empty glass went, because it's not here anymore, unless you count the purplish stain on the tablecloth in a suspiciously convenient location.  But that never did any good but to the dogs, and I'm not about to wring out cotton over my glass, so all I can do now is pick apart the words spoken by someone who never meant them and try to find a deeper significance to explain to the students and teachers, hoping and praying that the world will see some genius that has been missed by all others since the first time the window broke.