You were made in abyss,

Colored in bliss,

Layered with many meticulous toppings,

Of which many were, just innocent musings.

Hang by the cord,

The glass shards might hurt,

Between you and me,

The frame is just perfect.

Curiosity is streamlined,

through the tableau,

and oh, so many have feasted.

A great souvenir,

Short lived, yet expanded

A rattling snake without an avenir.

The colors might itch,

Like a freshly smoked stub

they might even spill,

and ruin the nice canvas.