Crack

Crack

Paste

A vase, broken by its own creator.

Not that it was old; no.

But it was unfitting for this world.

No one would understand.

So instead she breaks a piece off and puts it where the broken ones go.

A sculptor that destroys her own art.

Uncommon but not rare.

Eventually someone will pick up the pieces.

But it seems like no one cares.

She speaks rarely; unable to put into words why, or reason.

Hoping someone would understand the deeper meaning.

But alas; they all get irritated; and turn back. 

Not caring anymore about her hidden collection.

If only she could paint; or write or sing.

But would they listen; read or care?

For it seems that only she can understand her language and pain.

That only she can sustain herself till she too breaks and crumbles.

She first started pasting them back together. 

Which she thought would make them stronger.

But it made her weaker.

The vases began to crumble in the kiln.

The paint began to chip.

The day began with wither.

She was tiring; fading away.

Her hopes; shown on the floor of the workshop.

Her dreams; shown in the unlit kiln

Her love; for herself, her future and her passions.

Began to dissipate.

Drip

Drip

Drip

A hand, forming her soul and body.

Sculpting it to its original mold.

And loving it as his own.

For a man, has brung new clay.

New fire wood, and a new day.

He has plastered over her cracks and chippings.

And laid kisses on each curve.

For he was not her creator.

But instead someone who understands.

For he too, had a collection.

Sitting in dust.

Writhing away at each gust of wind that passes.

But he knew how to make them stronger and more known.

He knew how to fire them and paint them with delicacy and precision.

So into the hand of a maker and into the next.

A vase; shown with pride and beauty.

No chips.

No cracks.

No dust.

Instead a perfect cerulean blue with a glazed shine. A wide base with a narrow opening. 

Because instead of flowers; change or just decoration.

Our collection will be a collaboration.

They will come together as if they were meant to be.

They will complete an impossible puzzle without knowing. 

For instead of their collection growing.

It halts at a stop.

And instead is shown as beauty from the heavens and strength from the Gods.

For a vase is not just a piece of glass or clay.

But instead a vessel from which eternity lays.