A broken thing of beauty
Surrounded by many subjects
Also in pieces
But nowhere near
As elegant
Or original
As we once was,
Instead of beaming glory
We are stared at
And admired
For our fragility
To decay over years,
In reality it takes many
To restore such unique
And intricate
Carvings of scars,
In fantasy
We must build ourselves
Back up to the supreme
Being
We once was,
To be death is peace
To be broke is cruel
But honest
To the world,
Today, and the next
I will leap forward
Back in time
To the present
So my mind
Can start
Being beautiful once more.
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