Like the vase that sits on the fireplace mantle.
I am an object of no consequence… until I shatter.
On the mantle I am whole.
Empty, yes… but in one piece.
Thus, I demand no attention.
So, the years go by...
and the dust collects.
All while I sit...
Unmoved and Unmarred...
... I break.
And, when I break, that is when the story comes.
The tale of where I came from.
Why I matter.
The monetary value that I hold.
When I am undone, all eyes are drawn to my
Bright and beautiful….
Scattered and strewn...
All. Across. The Floor.
And it’s no one’s fault…
I should not have held so still.
I should not have been so fragile.
I should have had my fill
Of time. On the shelf. By then.
So I contemplate my shambles
As someone runs to grab the broom.
And in pieces I remember
...that I am no longer empty.
In fragments I see that I am something to someone…
That my existence has a purpose.
And, as I am swept into oblivion,
That Broken I am valueless,
Only Broken do I understand my worth.