My life is but a broken bottle
washed upon the shore in
little p  
      i
         e
        c
          e
    s         
that catch the Sun's careless eye
and spins them into spun glass,
washed and scrubbed clean
by the gritty, fragrant ocean.

At one time, inside this bottle lay
[a message]
of HOPE, FORTitude
and ...........compassion...........
No instead there lies a rotted pile of
srcabmled wrods melted and bled
by the same FORCE that
bbbbbrrrrreeeeeeaaaatttthhhheeesss

----------------Life---------------------------

My life hence forth seems dull, dry, and
c/r/a/c/k/i/n/g like weathered paint chips.
It has grown stale, and        putrid          .
Perhaps a breath of SpRiNg can renew it?
Like the persistant O----Flower-----O BREAKING
free
from the mud and soil, I refuse to
Give
Up.......





Give... up... what?