Kids In Glass Houses

It is said that children in glass houses should never throw stones.
But what of the children who built their own glass houses
From the universal expectation of what they ought to be? 
The children who's glass houses germinate from the earthy tears they shed for themselves?
What if those glass houses are phantom fragments of glass, hastily cultivated by the children who trembled at the possibility of another entering their veneer.

Stones thrown from glass houses expose these un-ripened souls to catastrophe, as those stones return and wound their glass wall, the walls then crumble and with it tumbles their long-laboured, willowy walls.
Crumbling crystal truths pierce vulnerable skin, toughening the earth and the next of kin, the greatest flood prohibiting future construction of juvenile glassy homes. 
Tis not age, nor the sun that weathers their youthful limbs, but the process of picking out glass pieces from virgin flesh.

Children, as they lie in the icy graveyard of their own construction, are exposed to stupider sage. 
They shake off shattered bones, rising like an undead army of the past, a mirror to the unknown, of universal unease. 

Born-again substantives trembling into the future, each footstep discarding glass on the maturing path. Each footstep an oath of falling shards to deny initial youthful weakness, each bloody footstep walking towards a stronger aged self.
The glass houses remain only for those who wish to see them - to the fleeing, those glass houses are merely bittersweet psalms.
Squint, and the lightening reflections may be seen.  Until the next generation experience the ageing, shattering of glass houses, until all that remains is a hillside of shards, the epitome of human narcissism, toilsome treading on fragments of former selves.

Ask now when adulthood occurs? When our freshly fitted steel shoes makes silver sand of the carcass ghosts of doomed youth we once were. 

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