A glass
tall and thin
wisps of
smoke rise
above.
The color of
polished rubies
fills to the
brim all
but one.
Standing tall,
alone, and
empty.
It waits
dust settles
encircling,
encasing
in memory.
Still it waits
no longer clear
but rather
grayed by time.
It’s longing
it won’t
stop
waiting.
It will wait,
whether time
itself encases
it in forever
darkness.
The magic
within,
endures.
The Weald 