On red, perfect porcelain,
In the sweet music of violins,
A single crack begins to snake,
A crimson surface now opaque,
Fading with the growing divide,
An object once held with pride,
Now darkened, wounds cracking,
Tender glue sorely, sadly lacking,
Wrapped in bubble wrap too long,
These violins pluck a forgotten song,
Drifting away in the faded light of dusk,
Now just a broken, discarded husk.
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@naaviie
23, Vegetarian, (insanely busy) Vet student pondering about love, life and dragons.
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