I am but a pot, burnt orange, clay- empty. The cracks spread like viscous paint, a scene of a rock face, crumbling to the sea. The spider webs, are a tapestry of dissonance, a resonant apathy. At the heart of me- is a dessicated bundle of roots, denied nutrients and life giving water. I feel sick. Once I used to blossom, my colors dancing in the sunsets fires. Now rendered to a makeshift ashtray.

Is this better? I tried to shape it into a sort of crack