Very very rough draft
Glass
I am merely sand
Heated to an extreme
Transferring my rawness
In the devils hearth
The work of a great craftsman
Twisted obscurely for many reasons
Function takes its place above form
My sweat is weakness leaving my body
I take many shapes
Fragile like glass vase
My usefulness is in emptiness
To hold water - the elixir of life
Not practical
Without a handle
Clumsy to Hold
Hard to fill
I prolong the beauty
Of the flowers
Entrusted in my care
Yet all I touch dies within hours
Smooth to the touch
Gently shaped
Broken I splinter
Lingering sharply for eternity
VIEW 24 of 24 COMMENTS
dropdeadred:
wow great poem
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parisambrosia:
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