Author's Note: Yeah! I finished this during school! Finally! Not to mention it's one of...er...three poems I have ever written! And probably the last!

Okay, I did mean to finish some short stories and even a longer chaptered affair, but I simply havn't had the time. But, as I am currently taking an writer's class, one of the prompts- write something about an inanimate object- created this. It is free verse- extremely so. It also took me about two hours of continuous revamping after the fact that I wrote it a week ago to actually give me the courage to post it.

I'm actually quite proud of it- are you to? If you like it, that little button at the bottom allows you to tell me you do- and that'd be rather nice.

Disclaimer- Wicked, which this is supposed to be around, though no real names are mentioned, is not mine- However I am sure there are other little green bottles out there that have never been used as props in the show- and if there is, I certainly will find those, so...yeah.

It's just a stupid little thing, really;

Hardly anything.

Not even worthy of being called 'bauble',

Or even 'knickknack'.

It's not even especially pretty;

Doesn't have a way of creating it's own sparkle,

Like a diamond.

Or shimmer each way you tilt it,

Like a pearl or opal.

Though, when you take the time to look at it-

Really look at it, I mean,

Not give it just some tiny little glance,

And be on your way-

The words 'dull' or 'plain'

Don't seem to suit it either.

There's a way that,

When you hold it up to the light, just so,

It gives off this wide stripe of lime-green shadow,

Which turns my peachy skin the same.

The glass looks so cold, so hard,

Sitting there on my desk or bedside table,

But whenever I pick it up,

It seems to grow warm just by feeling the small touch,

Or perhaps it's taking in the ounce of attention it receives from me.

Within it, virtually anything could be held within it,

And though some believe it to easily see,

What is there.

The glass distorts it, changed the flower petals, or liquid,

Into something they're not.

And there it's held fast.

Until curiosity gets the better of you,

And you stop to pry the cork stopper from it's lip,

And peer inside to find whatever treasure is really in there.

And it is quite a poetic item,

When you realize that such a thing could last centuries if kept close and considerably safe.

Always there to be watched,

To be looked at...

And yet, the moment you choose to leave it alone,

The slightest breeze could send it tumbling from it's precarious perch,

And shatter beyond any hope of repair,

As all fragile things are want to do if neglected,

For even the shortest of seconds.

And after the initial crash,

Which can be the loudest noise sometimes,

It can take minutes to realize that, this time,

It's actually gone.

It's never, ever going to be the same-

Never going to sit on that window again.

To be just on the other side of canopy curtains.

Standing sentinel closest to the door.

Amazing, really.

How this not-so-plain and not-so-beautiful-

This...funny green bottle-

Reminds me so strongly,

Of it's previous owner.

And not just in hue.

I take great care,

Cradling it now against the fabric of my newest dress,

And my right hand.

Using the barriers to make sure,

This time,

I'm there to make sure this glass doesn't fall and shatter,

So that I don't have to pick up the pieces.

And so that I can continue,

To pass through my bedroom doors,

And face the crowd,

Who celebrates the first shattering.

While secretly, I sit every night in the lime green shadows of the very bottle,

And mourn the shattered.