I lay inside the glass box,
Fragile, no one touch!
I lay wrapped up in silk,
Pretty, admire from afar.
I lay adorned with crystals,
Delicate, no one ask.
A perfect mask, worn so with even more.
The tempests gather round in swirling tiresome blasts,
And I, in my glass box, do naught but lay still for it to politely leave.
Rowdy, untamed, it seeks its vengenance,
But my silks, so pretty, make me a graceful mound.
It tears at the box, the sounds deafening.
I admire my crystals, lost in the reflections.
Bedazzling sights, ye!
So divine, ascetic.
A thousand words of poetry, nor a couple thousand pictures, can ever make up for your beauty.
But the storms tear through, blind and oblivious. Disturb naught the queen of pieces: Of lust and seduction, of calm and peace.
Pieces of fabric stitched wearily together, you’ll see.
It breaks the glass box, shattering it in its wake.
It tears through the silks, rags in its way.
It snickers at the crystals, pushing them away.
And oh, look at what’s inside.
Curious.
A mask an on ordinary little girl.
With frantic eyes and panicked breaths. With tears in her eyes, wary of death.
Beauty. Grace. Power.
Pleasureable, she had none!
But the tempest looks naught twice, shaken out of its nature for a moment.
It lets out a howl, a vaguely mournful shriek, and tears the mystic masks she wears.
Look! Her glass box! Her silks! Crystals!
Rejoice, gather, gather.
Take one, take all.
Let us build another.
And so went on the path.
Of something,
And of nothing.
Where at the end, a little girl weaps.
And the shreds of the masks lay at her feet.