Something so pure even glass clouds in comparison.
So fragile
So clear
Yet it burns with fury dwarfing the sun.
A powerful thing when properly cared for.
Such a frail object to hand over to another.
A treasure to be kept alive, intact.
Some believe it is handed over by choice
Others fate.
Who are we to judge such decisions?
For we all have the same obligation to it.
With great care we stoke the flames of another.
Hoping they in turn do the same.
Praying they do not place it upon a percurius shelf. Leaving it to die out to embers.
Alone, forgotten some turn to stone. Others burn brighter with every crack.
Broken it is returned, so another can mend it.
Fuel the flames, restoring its glory.
A few unfortunately are returned incomplete.
A piece to a puzzle left behind, smuggled by the destroyer. A prize to place upon their shelf. All the mending in the world can not bring it back to its once great beauty. The flames flicker with the absence.
Cruelty can crush it, snuff it out, turn it to ash.
Grief can smother it, darken its light, dowes it with water.
Rage can drive it wild, fuel it until it consumes itself.
Taken for granted, it will suffer.
The true irony of it all, the most delicately fragile thing in the world can be the most powerful force in the universe.
What do we do with it?
We give it away.
YOU ARE READING
A Wandering Mind: A collection of short stories & poems.
Short StoryA mind is ment to wander, to see beyond reality, into worlds unknown.
