The Collection

Solemnity enclosed in glass

Isolates them in a class

That at reality scorns.

Society of their own,

Flamboyant beyond convention,

Obtained through a fake conception

Their dominion over time.

They were baked.

One does wonder if it ached

Within them, that is,

Impatience

To really be or be broken

And through shattering find rest.

Perhaps neither.

Extravagant gems!

Rubies, sapphires, pink topaz;

Like ember the one in gold,

Wearing a garment so torn

It rubs the meaning of lewd.

Longevity for art is cruel

When it outlives all its masters.

Behind the clear ornate doors

As ladies’ heirloom they profit

With no sigh but yes,

With love,

From the envy women vomit.

Counterfeiters of beauty

Women are;

Such was the creed behind the glass.