I am nothing but fragile glass,
Always on the verge of breaking,
Hating how my tears gather fast,
Spilling with each slight undertaking.
My glass gleams, rich, and clear as crystal,
Yet it’s still glass, brittle, finite, frail.
One tremor, one slip, one misplaced whisper,
And I might shatter, my strength grown pale.
I’m the glass that holds a world within,
Reflecting skies, both dark and bright,
I am strong, yet paper-thin,
Balancing shadows and streams of light.
Each line, each flaw a silent story,
Etched by time and fragile grace,
A beauty born from fragility's glory,
In breaking, still finding my place.
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