Hours and hours by the beach they'd spend,

morning glasses filled, joy without end.

Drinking till sunset, their spirits soaring high,

peace, belonging, beneath the blue sky.

Joseph Cornell's in his own little bubble,

his world depends on this beach, 

and how the woman he shares it with gleams, 

They look at paintings on the sand,

for long they forget how to stand, 

they are the ones hanging up,

in his box.

One day his glass shattered, 

his bubble that was once bright is a hazard, 

his woman now gone, 

no more mornings, no more light,

in his bubble, darkness fell, replacing the bright.

His grief felt like an endless tide,

that would drown him. 

Yet amidst the darkness, rage and despair,

he clings to the shards, a silent prayer.

Gazing at a full glass, he finds hope,

in his broken bubble, learning to cope.

In the room of broken dreams, which was quiet, 

he starts gathering pieces under the sky, 

with hands that were trembling.

He was to rebuild what had been destroyed.

He turned to his art for comfort,

finding safety in the act of making. 

He used his art to hold memories of them in the sand,

each item was a tribute to the love they had shared. 

He felt calm for a moment,

and caught a glimpse of the beauty,

that was still in the world,

in the delicate dance of colors and shapes.

As the days turned into weeks and weeks into months,

he discovered that his despair gave him strength,

beneath his grief. 

As the sun set again over the beach,

Joseph stood alone among his broken bubble,

he learned to see beauty in broken pieces, 

so he placed it in his artwork.