Bauble

I carry it so carefully,
So fragile in this crowded procession,
It's smooth spherical surface slipping
Through my grasp, though I still clasp,
I can almost feel it's frailty,
Nearly cracking through my suppression,
But without it lacking any cause,
Just a simple object of obsession,
The virtually utopian orb, another
Ornament, happily smothered
With practically perfect progression,
But the quartz is counterfeit,
The gold in imitation,
The silver, just a simulation,
And all tacked on without support,
Sold to for another cunning celebration,
So when I forget and let go,
And as the silent tears run from all around,
Such an ersatz Earth falls to the ground,
And it shatters without so much as anyone making a sound,
And the lights in my head, all aglow,
What matters is what was inside such a shell,
Thought to be the sounds of the sea from so long ago,
Or the sights on the summits where the sun bid farewell,
Or the touch of the trees which now rest down below,
But there was simply nothing in that shattered mess.
It was wholly overflowing in emptiness.