A Day of Rhythmic Reason

I am white,
snow around an open wound.
The pristine blanket
of my skin
is now trodden,
stamped hard by footsteps--
the echoes of a distant past.

I am strong,
stone upon altars of flesh.
My cracked facade
a testament anew
to the endurance trials
only one like me would know.

I am art,
paint and shrapnel flung amok.
The used napkins
of yesterday's bad flings
torn away and replaced, now--
not so lightly as they'd think.

I am white,
milk in a half-empty glass.
My pure intentions
are just jokes
that are lost, too;
they fall on deaf ears
for only a blind man to see.

##

Author's Note: Some random thoughts that came out in my Lit class. I tend to tune the teacher out, so I have to amuse myself somehow.