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...
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