A beginning imperfection
plagued with a hairline fracture in a velvet China vase.
The fine cracks,
left absent-mindedly enabled
to sprout into a void, a lonliness
that no crowd could cure,
and before the glass blower’s eyes,
the false sense of security collapsed in on itself.
The handy-work that the creator slaved,
bled,
fought to keep together,
using a solution, a facade if you will,
that never cured.
His muse once so ethereal, so put together
seemed in that moment that bearing the curse all humans must carry was
easy,
motionless,
gratifying.
Relieved of the anxiety, the glassblower disposed of the carnage that ensued prior-
expurgating all the water and wilted flora and fauna off the cool tile
before removing the broken pieces that once formed an object
that brought immense joy to many,
deserving or not.
The vase could not feel,
nor could it suffer,
because no one wants a broken vase
that once held beautiful flowers.