Why keep a cracked vase?
A friend viewed my antiques.
I value it, I said. She gaped.
Expression a question mark.
Cracks are treasure, I declared.
Broken, fixed back together.
Cracks fashion a pattern,
I can never fail to admire.
A robust vessel, I mused,
Turning it in my hand.
Sound as when it was crafted.
Stronger for its flaws.
Not the vase it once was.
Different, I observed.
Perhaps a little peculiar,
But no less beautiful.
It will not easily break,
Or topple from the shelf.
Cracked, not broken, I stated.
Beautifully cracked, I said.
BETWEEN THE CRACKS
Secrets
Linger, trapped
Between the
cracks.
Generations
trample
The floor
above,
Unaware.
Secrets wait to
Spring to life.
Fresh and vital,
as
The day they
were
Meticulously
Buried.
Discreetly wait
For a heedless
soul,
To stumble on
them.
Where the
obscure
Incessantly
seek
The light.
CRACKED BOX
I
chose a box with ugly cracks.
Found a
treasure there within.
Golden coins to
the brim.
Ever since, my
step is light.
The boxes were
all beautiful.
Rainbow colours
to entice.
Exquisitely
painted, gilt-trimmed,
With shining
ornate clasps.
I paused for
the longest time,
Gazing from box
to box.
One stood
alone, not so fine.
I noticed it
was flawed, cracked.
I thought about
the many times
I had departed
from that place.
With flawless
boxes. Dashed away.
Hoping for a
valued prize.
One box had
overflowed
With rich
delectable food;
Which afterward
made me ill,
Left a bitter
taste behind.
Another held
gleaming jewels,
Which overnight
transformed
Into stones.
This time I knew
I must select
the right one.
I chose a box
with ugly cracks.
Found a
treasure there within.
Golden coins to
the brim.
Ever since, my
step is light.
NOT BROKEN
Cracked and
exquisite.
Cracked and
strong.
Cracked, not
broken.
Still holding
on.
I adore your
cracks.
They capture light.
In shrouded
places,
In bleakest
night.
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