There sat an earthen vessel: a vessel of clay,
Every aspect was unique in her own way,
Her glaze of many colors- bound to her alone,
Made by potter's hands whose methods are unknown.
She sat on the mantelpiece, above the blazing fire,
The vessel covered in glass all did desire,
Light bounced off her like golden bands of the sun,
She rests from sunrise to when the night is done.
As the years came and went a crack formed on her side,
"Nothing big," she thought, "'is something I can hide,"
She fell on wooded ground causing her mouth to chip,
"It is fine," she thought, "'is just a little slip."
Her glaze lost its luster- her beauty now is dull,
Endless forming fractures- can't be filed full,
Liquids poured in her are bound to come out a hole,
In her heart, she feels like she has lost her soul.
In the end, beauty slowly breaks,
From the build-up of small mistakes,
Regardless of the path, you take,
The grave is where we will wake.
YOU ARE READING
Book of Dreams
PoetryThis is going to be a poem collection: some happy, some sad, and other to make you wonder. Each one has been rooted in some kind of dream I had or just a thought bubble I've been stuck on. Please give feedback, it would be the best way for me to imp...
