Most days I see myself as a human and not a vase, I feel sure of myself and my steps of grace. I walk to you, I write out truth, I leave it there for you to decipher and read. You look to me for an interpretation or key. I offer you nothing. I watch you for years with your awl and your axe, as you melt away the ice and the wax, eliminate the earth and the dirt and turn truth into a scripture. You write out the bible for me, you recite Psalms 23 and Corinthians 13, and begged of me, “Is this how you had meant for it to be?”
Well, this is not how I meant it at all, but it is your billet and burin, your sculpture to sculpt. You tear it all down and begin with a skulk. You carve and you cast, you mold and you model, and Michelangelo, please know that this is not how it was meant to go. You were meant to flourish and grow, all on your own. You throw down your maquette and pick up a brush. You paint every tree and every crease in me, but my precious Van Gogh, you still don’t seem to get it or know. You abandon your easel and surrender your soul. The days pass and the light fades, the nights seem to remain the same. You breathe heavy and slow.
But there are days like today you are able to see me less as a human and more of a vase. You are apt to see that I was not dismantled by man, but more by the days. The broken ways in which I am phased and I watch disbelief cast across your face. You return to my truth and leave it alone. You rewrite your verses, cut right from the bone. You still breathe, but easily now, and preach you do not, the words of God or the exercises of Vincent Van Gogh. You take me off of the shelf and put me in to the dark. I fly from your mind like the wind or a lark,
For I am only an urn, crying out for the rain, and you, void of my vein, are an entire sea – no longer crying out for me.