A Cup Half Full

I now fear nothing can be more enhanced. Now, at last, my cup of life is half full. How can a water lily's reflection? Be more refined and crystal clear. Now's that; it's sitting up, unapologetic. Above, pondering the still-blue air The cycle of life—isn't it prophetic? We live and even die in poetic states of abjection. Our lust is like an additional stratosphere. Like flower stalks stretching to Apollo Likewise, we're a submerged water lily. I guess all it wants to do is somehow follow. These cups and saucers are too full, spilling over. And like her, she is not too shabby either.