Cracks – by Randall Stephen Hall

 
 
It’s a fault within us.
Part of our culture.
To only see the small crack
Within the pane of glass
But not see the window.
To never see the window frame
The window and rarely the view.
Trapped in the detail.
That’s us, a bunch of fuss pots.
 
We are mean that way
In our sense of hope.
Mean in how we turn compliments
Into jibes and jibes into death threats.
Jokes into violence
And humour into an insult
Painted on a gable wall.
 
Some craic that is.
Leaving us fragile and sensitive
To the comments of others.
Tender and raw lipped.
Thin skinned, like lamp shades
Revealing our brittle filament.
A light house calling to a sea
Full of insults, wave after wave
Lapping like thirsty dogs
At a bowl with no water.
Our generosity knows no bounds 
Always alert to unexpected sounds
Like a genuine compliment.
 
Our northern culture.
A rusted bucket with no handle.
Unable to carry love
For fear of spilling
A genuine miracle.
Each drop, a wee treasure.
 
www.randallstephenhallsonga com
A northern Irish artist
 
 
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