That once were adept at resisting grime
They turned sentient, watching love's parting
That leaves scars on the strongest of minds
My plates had such intricate gold inlays
Which have now started to rust and grey
If such is the plight by the observer's sight
What could be of mine, a lesser mortal's fate
Between the porcelain and my fragile heart
There is not much one can find of oddity
They both shatter, when they are dropped
When they slip off from a palm's embrace
At very least I wish my heart was mendable
Made of sawdust even, but not from porcelain
For my porcelain plates now retain stains
For in sentience it could only cause pain
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