I'm, but a bottle of vintage wine.
Preserved for long,
For an occasion, so perfect.
Over time, it has been,
The star of the wardrobe.
He kept it with pride.
And finally, the day came, so awaited.
And stood there, that wine glass so beautifully with grace.
As it, would hold the precious of all, in it.
Like a lady in grace,
And her curves so pristine,
Beauty that falls so spontaneously.
Lady, you fail to know.
They stare at you, those men,
They dream of you, from far.
And their greedy souls, How they long for you.
Can't you see?
And, a moment of pause.
Then he pours, the wine.
And that moment changed it all.
Down it fell,
Into the white marbled floor.
Breaking into countless pieces,
Of fine glass crystals, sharp enough.
To cut through,
All in its way.
But, more sharp it was in his heart,
And soul.
The wine, red, stained the floor.
Ah, that remains.
How, it shattered,
And what it was preserved for.
That, it cannot be, recollected.
It gave him, a pain,
Making a mark( too deep).
And it was true,
That he never bought one, again.
He feared, it'll fall down again.
How he couldn't hold one in his hands, anymore.
I'm, but that glass of wine,
Broken.
All into many pieces.