Illusion

You saw a beautiful, sparkling
bed of snow
feathery soft and so inviting
looks so pure
You thought you would lounge there looking like
an angel
spread out on the pillowy blanket
and you gasp
it's not snow, but splintered glass, drawing
blood and tears
piercing skin searing needling pain
glittering
Linger, because your hair on the frost
black on white
looks so nice, but the pale needles rake
leave split ends
You run, and with every single step
cuts run deep
leaving a thread of scarlet footprints
on your soul
And you will never again touch snow
for the glass.