Q: Porcelain Life

At the end its just a vase,
a sad old vessel
in attic pride of place,
it can't hold water any more,
dust steeped in its china pores.

Once it was held like gold,
tight, shining,
full of life,
ready at the tap to give a day
the colour that it lacked.

Then the crack,
then the danger of a flower,
the fear of picking up,
the elegance of contour
now the long forgotten shape
of someone's fingertips.

Still it stands
reminding of its glory,
the first day it was filled and proud.
Now it's heavy, fragile, flawed,
never to be discarded,
never more to be adored.