The hands gingerly began to pick up the broken glass
Fragments echoed embittered eyes
And slashed at bare fingers.
The hands were intimidated
Thought it was hopeless, impossible
It proved so.
The hands wanted to give in.
To be rid of the pieces.
The remains wanted to be bandaged.
The hands collected the mess.
The mess bit the hands.
The hands bled on the mess.
The hands cried.
But it mattered not.
Even if it were put right,
It would not ever be the same.
And it would still be seven years bad luck.
About broken glass, or about something...else? Eh. It's pretty crap, so whatever. Review, please.