A Word Called Acceptance

Patiently perched by the oil-painting of yellow birch, it pondered something stupendous.
It was simply a thought. An abundantly absurd and admirable aspiration,
though it was enough to evoke exultation.
It thought of a word. Only one wonderous word. A word of uncomplicated complexity.
A word that foretold freedom, forthrightness, carefully crafted with content comfortability.
A word called acceptance.

Was it really that hard to imagine? As hard as riding a severed seesaw?
Apparently so, for everyone would know that the world was no place for a vacuum cleaner.

They were simply tools, taken to tend to terribly trash-tainted tiles.
Taken, to clean contamination caressed carpet.

Carelessly condemned, were its family,
into constricting crates and claustrophobic, cardboard containers.
To be sold, like poor precious pets, to the fate of fiercely fiendish fingers.

It knew this was the case, so lacking in grace, that it would someday have to face the fact that this was its life.
As sharp as a knife was its willingness to accept the drastic distaste of the word acceptance.

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