Clear and empty, standing tall,
Fragile glass that light falls through.
Clink, clink.
So many possibilities,
like grains of sand on a beach.
The empty jar calls, pleads,
lonely beyond imagining.
Fill me, fill me, fill me.
If I allowed it,
the emptiness and the ideas could consume me.
Of one thing I'm certain,
the empty jar must be filled.
I could fill it with prizes,
possesions I adore more than any other.
Long necklaces, shiny coins, nothings that bring the past back.
Filled to the brim, I know the jar would sigh,
content at last, a purpose fulfilled.
The empty jar would not think of more possibilities.
But I would, I do.
My mind races on to bigger, silly impossibilities.
The empty jar could hold books,
thousands of books.
It could hold a home,
warm, safe, lovely.
The empty jar would laugh if it could hear my thoughts.
But secretly I envy the empty jar,
so open and free.
I am all-too human,
wrapped up in my own pain and memories,
a filled jar.
