It’s like when the bowl falls out of your hand,
The slow motion shattering as it begins to land,
You try and grab back onto it,
To save from a devastating hit.
Your hand just isn’t very quick,
As it falls deeper towards the brick,
You believe the slow motion is real,
And you could just reach out and feel.
But you have been lied to again,
Like the sheep in the pen,
As you dive to bring it back,
The bowl cracks.
It shattered into a million pieces,
The china now releases,
To resemble my very soul,
Which the illness stole.