Finest China

I have a vase
It’s made of the finest China.
I know not where I found it.
I know not what it means.
I know not what its absence would do to me.

I have a vase
It’s made of the finest China.
Its beauty is inexplicable.
Its existence enigmatic.
Its place in my heart an irrational question.

I have a vase
It’s made of the finest China.
I refuse to touch it with my tangible hands.
I refuse to let go of its transcendent state.
I refuse to let a dark eye ruin its legacy.

I have a vase
It’s made of the finest China.
It wants to be explored.
It wants to move ahead.
It wants to display its timeless aura across a wider spread.

I have a vase
It’s made of  the finest China.
It does not realize its mortality.
It does not realize its  pestilent stupidity.
It does not realize it shall shatter at fall.

I have a vase
It’s made of the finest China.
It irks me to let it fall out.
It kills me to watch it hurt.
It devastates me to ignore its loss.

I have a vase
It’s made of the  finest China.
I know it’s my selfishness that draws all the lines.
I know that my childish whims annoy.
I know that my foolishness is severe.

I have a vase
It’s made of the finest China.
Alas! I must enter the stage.
I must ignore my conscience.
I must try.

 

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