She pours holy water
Into her fragile glass,
But there is a crack,
And water flows fast.
She wants it back,
But things quickly pass
And do not return.
Yes, she’s doomed to yearn
For what she lacks.

She’s locked in her tower
In the darkest hour
As night claims its prey.
While she sips away
At an empty, broken cup,
Skyward, she looks up
Where imagined angels dip.
Though she pines for the sky,
Her cracked, cursed cup is dry,
And the holy water -
As sweet as salt, it drips -
Has never touched her lips.