I held a piece of glass in my hand

Fragile it was, though its hues were many.

I willed it to be beautiful and take on a shape,

A shape that my mind had concocted.

I took on the task of creating this shape and making it beautiful

And there was nothing I left undone.

I bought the most beautiful shades of colour and the widest palette of them too

I painted all night and toiled over the piece of glass

And it willingly took on every dab and design I etched on it.                

There were myriads of shades and hues I created

The bluest blues and the greenest greens

And the mauves and the lilacs made their appearance too.

I waited a day and decided that the glass was not a match

For what I had willed it to have in my head

And loathe giving up on my dream for it,

I toiled on more for another night,

This time with something less juvenile, I told myself.

I bought an entire kit of glass blowing supplies

And poured over the manuals before I blew my life,

My life into newer pieces of glass that would adorn the older one.

Morning came and I ran out excitedly, the pieces of glass in hand.

I had a basket full of differently coloured ones

Pieces of glass that I had so uncouthly joint together.

They were colourful and bright, but lacked finesse

And certainly were nothing like what I had willed them to be.

I had in my under confident hands a glass menagerie of sorts

But before I could claim any sense of creatorship,

My hands shook and they crashed to the ground.

A gazillion pieces twinkled at me in the sun,

Colours no longer discernible, winking at me,

As if to say, “See, you thought you could will us into being!”

I looked down, at once remorseful, my ego blown to bits

For neither a creator nor an owner was I

Nor had I any power over anything that was not mine in the first place.

No more expectations for they were bound to crumble away without trace

I would learn acceptance for what is and what will be, and be happier that way.