bicycleofthoughts

An empty vase, as it stills itself on some wood.
The most commanding presence in the room.
A glance up and suddenly down,
as one felt something, wondering whether he should.
“Look elsewhere”, the corner, the broom,
the ceiling, the walls, the people around.
But no eyes meet, all are on the vase.
Hands reach out to claim and turn to dust.
And some start to paint, just to mimic a feel.
My lips widen, my teeth showing, I can’t chase
My laughter imminent, overriding my lust.
The vase is empty, it has no appeal.