Sparkling, room for any shape.
Held aloft, transparent and hiding nothing
At heights it seldom viewed, higher would it be. Not yet.
Too far from any sight too cramped for any plant.
Tumbling into utter mundanity, and yet from it, pieces strewn above any other?
Except none knew, if the form was an ageless pane, or ardent shards.
Reaching, I seek any guarantee

This poem is about: 
Our world
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 


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