precariously balanced, these glass shards are.
little pebbles mingle in his hands, forming
a little hill of something that used to be big
and beautiful. the artist, he will keep holding
on until his fingers break and his heart stops, and
so he prepares to put the past back together.

breath shaky, he knows that beauty has a price.
so he cancels his weekend plans, gives up on
finally cleaning his cluttered studio, dons his
work clothes, and begins his new project.

the artist's fingers are not trembling, but
his resolve is. there is great pressure; to
be god, one must create something out
of nothing. to be an artist, one must create
something beautiful out of a mess. he
does not want to be god, but glass is harder
to piece back together, than it is to make.
and he cannot hold it together anymore.

they fall to the floor, the artist and his
failed masterpiece. glass makes a pretty
sound when it breaks, and so does his heart.
a pretty little tinkle that resounds in
the floorboards, that travels to the neighbors
and makes them smile because something
almost beautiful but not quite is happening.

beauty has it's price.
but this artist is too poor to pay in full.

a/n: to be edited, maybe, some day. when i'm not so busy fighting the monster.