bricks of fragile shard, tiny house of porcelain and glass, children of gentle china, there is silence in our tiny glass house, then laughter bounces gently on each fragile wall, clammy china hands tug at our mother's smooth porcelain skirt, a kiss of dove white delicacy atop our heads, silence falls once again- in our tiny glass house. then it is dark and he has horns and he has hands of rage and he fills up every space in our tiny glass house he is angry loud he is bigger louder he strains our tiny glass house this thunderous thunderous man he breaks our childish china bodies he marks our mother's smooth porcelain skirt. our tiny glass house splits. and only the man remains.