Here lies my ruined vessel
all shards and sharp edges
jutting from the path beneath my feet.
Once she contained a world:
a riot of marigold &
fragrant mountain mint,
scabiosas dancing in the summer breeze,
peopled by bumbling bees and cautious moths;
a feast for the senses.
Somehow, amidst the commotion of the living,
I missed the quiet devastation working from within,
borne of seasons and time and piques of weather
each eroding what had once contained
so much promise that
I believed she would last forever.
I could not fix her if I tried.
And I tried.
Now I’m left to ponder,
As my hands grasp at these brittle, dismembered fragments:
could there be beauty, even in this?
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