The rejuvinate scrap hangs there,
Perched within a throne of white seashell.
It wanders, unsatisfied into the depths
Where it is plucked, pondered, and placed back again.
Easily could it be tossed,
And thrown into the rime,
Yet night after night it slumbers,
falls,
and it saved from the Eau.
Through light and dark, it remains proudly peeled and empty.