The Vase

She is small, thin and fragile. Unlike the inclining curve, sway and depth of the vase.

She will never be the Pageant queen, unafraid of collecting dirt in her core bitten nails. While the vase, in comparison, is sheer porcelain, and regal perfection.

The vase is see-through, clear and pure like an infant's first breath. It's perfectly audible. She, is a mystery to unfold, a story without a conclusion. Her painter, perplexed to no one, gave up on his Mona Lisa.

The vase holds much purpose, as if God himself molded it with eloquent hands. The vase cradles 'pretty things,' like flowers, with boundless hues as unique as Crayola crayons.

She has never worn diamonds adorned around her wrist or neck. Her withered skin has never graced the brilliance of diamonds or the tickle of Indian silk.

The vase draws awareness and astounded wondering eyes. While she stands swallowed inside a crowd, her voice drowned out, like a whistle in the wind.

The vase can be filled to capacity but she is half full.

The vase is loved by many but she is loved by one.

The one that owns no vase and doesn't see necessity in one.