It was, I promise,
the most charming bibelot.
It could've been held in a palm --
even one that shivered as much
as mine.
Even I couldn't've broken it.
I've broken so much
(too much),
but I could never have broken this,
the most desirable, the most fascinating
of bibelots.
I'd try, and try,
unintentionally, of course(?),
I'd try, and try,
to shatter it.
Delicacy was never
something I was able
to handle with care.
I'm a brutal person.
Heartless, some could
(would) say.
It was painted to look like
the wisest mahongony.
Wiser than any
simple, plain brown
on the spectrum.
Carved, neatly and precisely,
with great detail.
Daffodils and birds.
Daffodils and birds.
Carved, neatly and precisely,
with great purpose.
A purpose far larger, far greater,
further,
than mine.
I couldn't've broken it,
darling, trust me, I had tried.
It's tucked behind
the china,
the most elegant, most manufactured,
china we have.
The china with the night sky painted
upon their factory-glossed faces.
Speckled with dust,
it's there.
The most purposeful of bibelots.
It's there.
YOU ARE READING
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PoetryA collection of tragedies of sorts, of demons or angels (whatever you'd fancy to call them) that lurk and/or gleam in my mind. Written when the moon's dreary and the sun's near awakening. Obnoxiously metaphoric, subtly inspirational. © Jake Sullivan...
