JenniferMaxwell
Senior Member
since 09-14-2006
Posts 1744
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0 posted 03-17-2010 07:43 AM
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It happens every morning as the sun begins to rise, windows on the tenements take on a golden glow, reflecting back a light that never reaches inside. In that world of one way mirrors, poverty’s the glaze, the gold is on the outside. Reflections are distorted, the glass is streaked by history, empty hands pass on the hopelessness, spill cups of dreams and aspirations, fracture fragile panes until they hold the cold of winter through seasons of a lifetime.
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