A neck with no head, a mouth with no words, Holding a garden that never needs birds. Glass-made guardian of a dying rose, What am I? Everyone knows.

My first two can abbreviate available no more Or drop my first for sickness, pain, or trouble that's in store Remove my second, wiping my existence heretofore Together, when you pound my head I never will get sore

I bet you'll never get it straight: It's what converging sides create.

You cry without sorrow as you peel back my layers.

Has cities with no houses standing tall, Has rivers with no water at all. Has mountains with no trees in sight, But can help guide you day and night.