It was trapped
Within the glass to which it was encased
It’s beauty everlasting
By the glass blowers hands
Hands, that acted from the minds own vision
Creating as the creator wished
The very essence of ideal
Perfection is an ailment
When set beside his work
But he destroyed it
In it’s immortality
For the very glory
Of nature
Is life
And life is never suspended in time
Life is in living and dying
And so the demise of nature
Came from it’s existence
Came from the glass blowers hands
Hands, that acted from the minds own vision
Creating as the creator thought he wished