a sphere held in hands,
would that I could
imagine a better life,
fleetingly perfect
as warm breath exhaled
on severe mornings.
Helpless, here I am
watching all the strands
to this glass orb;
they can only shatter
in priceless pieces.
Then again, who knows,
if I drop it, it may rebound
back again as an echoe
of a singular poem.
