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I am but
A shattered rose.
My existence lies in ruins
On the desolate ground;
Beauty has long since vanished
From the lifeless shards.
Everyone attempts
To piece me back together—
To fashion me into
Their own perfect, flawless visions;
But even in my broken state,
Cracked fragments clouded
By frosty mist,
I will never be more
Than what I am:
An icy cold bloom of silence,
Layered in blankets of opaque glass,
Soul forever locked
Within a frozen prison,
Petals reclusive in a
Splintered sheath of crystalline.
And the more they try
To mend my fractured exterior,
The more my remains disintegrate
Into a blue oblivion—
Remnants crushed into translucent sand.
Soon there is nothing
But emptiness left,
A soundless void where only
Bleakness and winter reside.
And while the arctic wind whispers
To the lonely snow—
The stark whiteness where
The flower once existed—
My remains drift invisibly upon
The chilling, surging sea.
No longer of this earth,
My heart of ice fading
Into the diluted abyss,
The ocean would be my tears
If I were made to cry.
I am but
A lost memory
Of a shattered, crystal rose.
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