That porcelain vase

I feel
that i might explode
into a hundred thousand
broken pieces
as my head
strains
to squeeze through
the iron bars that lock
me, without escape
in that burning
room where demons
seem to gnaw everywhere-
my eyes, hands, legs, toes-
especially on the core
of my tired, weeping heart.
The bursts of flame
that might once be brilliant
are now hot with despair-
The heat,
which have once warmed
a frozen mind
numb with ignorance,
has grown to sear and
tear scars.
That smile has turned bitter,
the love neglected to resentment...
Is there nothing left;
the joy of innocence,
so carefully wrought,
and torn cruelly into shreds
like the maddened disillusionment
of an artist who knows,
of perfection never attained?