newark

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