A crimson shelf, tiny as a fist
holding delicates quite a few
stands guarded
by no less than a dozen warriors.
A lone shelf in a gray fort,
dwells in peril of the fall.
Atop it stands a line
of glass bottles
with cracked shells and mended crevices,
with faded glass and protruding shards,
each filled with potions- feared and loved.
The shelf clutches them all,
bubbling serums anxious to break free.
The pinks and the oranges are better behaved
while the greens and reds are out to destroy them all.

The pink one brims with love
in a bottle adorned with cracked and bleeding veins.
The shelf keeps it in the back
tested and tried, uses it scarce.
The brown one scrapes the bottom
for the shelf has known grief the most
and pours it with no thoughts twice.
Orange and red rage a battle of their own
will it be joy unbound or anger unkempt?
Even the Gods have tired above.
Green and yellow hold hands with purple
for as soon as envy trips, hatred does follow.
And as hatred consumes,
fear doesn’t falter to spill over.

One day when the gray fort tears down,
and the crimson shelf starts to tremble
a bullet breaks in and shoots a bottle
and then another gets in and another shatters around.
Down they fall, all one by one
Finally out free.
Little do they know that the other shelves
will hunt them down to the sea.