There lies an empty vase atop a high counter
Made of glass most fragile though striking to behold
It was home to a colorful sea of undying petals
Back when the world was wide
And the sun newly shone;
But oceans have since dried, and all clouds have faded
Taking their tears with them unto yet greener lands,
Leaving but a desert of red, dried clay and dust
Neither Hell nor High Water can bring back its rhythm.
So lies the empty vase, field of nones and nevers,
On the verge of a fall down a slow precipice,
Yet brimming a thousand hue each daybreak;
Oh let the hand which breaks be broken in return –
Oh let the ichor run along such pearly husk –
Oh let the deep scars heal over the long years –
For the vase lies pure white upon the tainted glove.