Ivory-colored wavelets
wrapped around a vase.
Their sensuous curls caught cleverly at their peak.

This is their beauty.
The cold, lifeless kind.

The wave never crashes,
it remains in a hopeful arc.

This is their beauty.
The unchanging, easy patterns.
Exactly what is desired.
Blemished textures of swirling foam is scorned.
As is the serpentine swells, unformed and innocent.
All is still, silent, and exquisitely detailed.

This is their beauty.
The mute, sparkling cherub curls.

The exhalation of the water is unheard.
The sea is caught on the tip of a breath, choking.

This is their beauty.
The small, the pristine.
Sitting decoratively atop a shelf.
The pressure of a thousand unbroken waves hidden behind fragile antiquity.

This is their beauty.
Artificial, bereft of the simple comfort of natural flaws.



Break the vase.
Throw it to the ground.
Release the many waves that are trapped in the ceramic genie bottle.

Break the vase.
Nature was not meant to be captured.



Break the vase.
Imperfect shards of a once perfect whole freefalling to the ground.

Crashing against the floor, finally exhaling.
Passionate, fleeting emotion.
This is our beauty.
The oddly melodic sound of the shattering, a ceramic scream.

A breeze blows through,
the wave has come and gone.
The moment is over, but there are always more.
Each sweeter than the next.

Instead of everlasing perfection, there are shivering bursts of white-hot
memory.
This is our beauty.
Live to breathe, taste, and feel it, moment to moment.


 
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