Of Vases And Relationships

He always accused her
Of making much of nothing
Like flinging a vase broken
Because the flowers long shrivelled
Water never struck anyone
Anger often alters perception
She of course had her own role
In the grand scheme of things
She was the victim
Of part circumstance, part consequence
And the pout often accompanied her
As did the threat of drying ink
On the pages of her diary
The paper soaking up her woes cloaked in
Dying embers that only her eyes could see
Such is the web of discontent
Woven often by the fingers trapped in them
Come saturday, the curtain rises again
Again, its act one of the happy couple
Because sometimes when the flowers die
Its easy to replace them
The vase remains.