Kassidy Smith
The trinket–once a gift.
Either mindless assumption or abstract thought:
Which are you? Who will decide?
Trinkets, when found and finally used, spark joy.
From the first moment, their fate is sealed–
destined for some to become an antique everyone wants,
or a thoughtless anecdote no one remembers to tell.
Open the imagination; fly through the inevitable future.
Go everywhere with them. Spend time apart.
See them less and less until you learn your place on the mantel.
Watch as it all moves on without you.
Where did everyone go?
You have no say; your fate was forged in silence.
Your existence is futile–an elegy in glass.
In time, your color fades, your shape unchanged,
your importance is a thing of the past.
You expected to be timeless, beloved by all?
Alas, your fate was sealed from the start.
What was the anecdote? Do you recall?
Someone gave it to someone who gave it to someone.
Passed down, or simply passed around?
Can you decide? Who cares?
You are nothing but a glass doll.
Your place is on the mantel.
You are no longer the object of desire.
But even on the mantel, glass remembers hands.
And that is enough.