Smashed marbles everywhere they looked,
Not wanting to accept the situation.
A call about someone in trouble began
But ended due to "too late"-edness.
Nothing intact remained; everything was in pieces,
Too separated to glue and put back together.
Hours dedicated to the task wouldn't matter;
Nothing would go back to "unchanged."
Hunting and gathering was all that could be done
For the horrifying collection of broken jars.
Once intact crystal of purest transparent shade,
Topped with a circular and smooth silver fastening,
Now broken into teeth of mass destruction too sharp
For any saint to touch without being left unmarked;
The rainbow swirls of mass proportions
Of each blue orb, once held together inside,
Lay scattered at intervals of various disasters,
Affected slowly by one and then another,
Fragmented into pieces so large but greatly fine,
They could shape the greatest tragedy with no advice.
Unable to come back, unable to fit the pieces right,
They glitter like seashells on now ugly, dirty shores.
They screamed for help and shrieked in pain,
Not knowing why they were screaming at all.
Desperate to recall the barest of clues, or smallest of hints,
A lead to their unexplainable anguish and despicable fates,
They will search far and wide, unknowing and unsure,
For their Lost Item is an empty crown that once was their head.
YOU ARE READING
The Practice of Poetry: Poem Collection
PoesíaA collection of poems I wrote some time ago for a poetry workshop class. I decided I wanted to share them with a larger audience and not keep them hidden within a file or folder forever. They range in topics, so their placement within the collection...
