Empty Nourishment

A porcelain bowl upon the table waits, in colored beauty, as a stomach sits to gnaw upon its filigreed edge, where an artist once painted pastel fruit, so delectably. Emerald vines, sweeping across delicate expanse, textured in their stillness, inviting one's imagination to simply taste. But what good is such vision, when it fills naught but eyes and lungs, with artful sigh? While its emptiness is swallowed whole, to dwell, in unsatisfied depths. If artists truly starved, would they paint only ugliness? Could hunger ever really appreciate such decadent beauty, without considering its waste? And still the bowl awaits upon life's table, as many different hands span its crafted rim, in search of individual fulfillment...