Proverbially stuck between the answer and a stick; one is to tempt me, the other is to make sure you submit. Horses love them; in fact, you may use the stick to dangle me, to make them move.

You can pronounce me many ways But I'm still the same thing. I hold flowers and trinkets I can be ancient or modern. Porcelain, glass, metallic or clay, On your table or mantle is where I stay.

I may be cheerful, calm, or grim, and sometimes change on just a whim.

Weak people are sometimes called me, I scrape your soles and keep them clean, Always the first thing to welcome you home, I spend my whole day awaiting you at the door

I sell you a mirror, then call the cage a town. I count your applause, weigh your envy, and rent your wounds back to you. I dress hunger as connection; I make silence feel like exile. Leave me, and I whisper: no one will know you were alive.