Halfway up the glass does the water reach not so low,
but protruding from the vase of life, flowers do not grow.
Withered petals and sagging stems replace the living air,
colours fade, death must obey, not alive to even care.
But if i drop into the vase a magic thought from me,
I can dream and think and see, the beauty that used to be.
Oct 28, 2014
Oct 28, 2014 at 3:09 PM UTC
Halfway up the glass does the water reach not so low,
but protruding from the vase of life, flowers do not grow.
Withered petals and sagging stems replace the living air,
colours fade, death must obey, not alive to even care.
But if i drop into the vase a magic thought from me,
I can dream and think and see, the beauty that used to be.
