A one-carriage train of thought rumbles into the station.
It carries unrecognized freed war prisoners
and the cargo of a warning
from the most perfect people in existence
for the rejected and the accepted,
but mostly for me and for you,
the common people.

The human body is made of glass,
those perfect-in-appearance say.
But no one bothers to question
how they managed to figure this out.

There must be a reason why,
without protection so great
that it can stop a bullet,
a person can shatter like
he or she was already broken,
and is nearly impossible to put back together
without any cracks between the glue
(Why do you think we have scars,
and a single word is
an automatic key for the dreaded doors
we call memories found
in the hallways of those infinite wounds?).

There must be a reason why,
when we look into each other's eyes,
beyond the irises
and into the layer of muscle we call emotions,
a window appears, and
we can see through 
the masks others wear
to the Prince's masquerade ball
to escape from the reins
of their evil step-mothers,
and see the true passion
that drives others' hearts to beat
(the heartbeat is unsteady
because they forgot to pave
the road to passion).

There must be a reason why,
when we look at others
who are pretending,
we can see ourselves,
for when there is darkness
bearing the unknown on its shoulders
behind a window,
the window is transformed into a mirror
for the side that carries the light
(and a torch that burns longs to
ignite that same flame onto
the wicks of the extinguished).

No, no one bothers to ask, but
the "perfect" know the human body is made of glass
because they are the ones with the scars.
They are the former war prisoners.

But if they didn't bother to cover the bandages up
with their skin-colored personalities,
no one would bother to believe them.
No one would bother to adhere
to their message about the fragile miracle of life
that can stir up a revolution.
No one would bother to handle that miracle with care.