Bright and silent
In a long-abandoned lot
Stood a glass house
Showing nothing to onlookers
But their own confused reflections.
None knew who built it,
Or when,
Or why,
Or who dwelt there.
They never showed.
What lay within glass walls?
Imagination filled the gap
Theories were concocted, discarded
And picked up anew.
Legends were weaved
About the slightest detail
A glint in the sun,
A peripheral glimpse someone might have seen.
Controversy raged.
Factions formed, splintered,
Fought and accused and persecuted
The glass house became an island of calm
In an ocean of tumult, the waves
Stirred by its very existence.
Finally, one day,
A brave child picked up a rock
And threw it into the glass
Inflicting a small crack
Upon the featureless facade.
To a collective gasp,
A hitherto unseen door opened,
And a lone figure hobbled out:
An old, unremarkable man.
"Knock it off, you kids,"
He shouted,
"I'm trying to sleep in here!"
He retired,
Closing the door behind him.
And the glass house remains,
Slightly cracked,
Ignored and forgotten,
Reflecting the sky.