Tidings stored inside marbled jars, stacked one upon
Another in mild fashion and yet grandly towering.
They stand distant to the outermost while some
Few I wish should tumble,
save not by my own hands –
I wish not to seem through design of my
Own deceptive means a believer in decadent self-pity.
Yet here I am a slight whisper away from you,
Separated by the eternity of these futile marbled glass jars.