Millions upon millions of infinitely small pieces
Of sharpened harsh glass, bitter and fragile
Scattered by the cruel cold winds of change
Upon the rocky cold ground
Once stained blood red, but slowly fading
Losing the vibrant hues they once possessed
Left to die, the unloved pieces slowly fade away
Erasing their soon-forgotten legacy as time passes
Ever so slowly
Left to their ruin, these infinitely many pieces
That once made such a beautiful whole
Seem to have no hope for a future
Have a bleak, colorless, joyless future
But there is a chance
Should a new and better wind come
To gently caress the poor lonely pieces
Lifting them from their current resting place
Reassembling them into their former shape
Giving them new color, better than before
Granting hope that a new day will dawn
A new future, hopeful and pleasant
But that new future, while to eventually come
Seems a long time in coming to the poor broken pieces
Still lying on the cold harsh ground.
