this glass now reflected a tabula rasa for our destinies both written and bled
echoes are what remains years of indecision gave birth to this great emptiness of ours
the sun finds them waiting, shivering and sleepy; the carriers of newborn dreams in hope
untouched — the room is bare, the restlessness is gone. the echoes die, the anger fades away
Clearly a cinquain this time.
Definitely a cinquain. Unless it's not.
This might be a cinquain.