A pebble's plea

It was a simple pebble in its place.      
Unloved, insignificant, no reason, nor will there be.        
The ground was a friend it thought,        
"a match made for loners, perfect        
for a lowly pebble-like me."        
        
Stained with centuries of mossy mire,        
Passed by, kicked, stepped on          
the norm of a day, the expected play,        
for one who is of no use, no matter,          
no words, or share, in which to say...        
         
How kind it would be, if just once held up to the sun.        
To rise above the rest, to feel, to be the wonder of one.        
To gain attention nearing the gilded warmth,        
a minuscule moment in an effort made.        
To exist for a second, not as a pebble or          
a valueless stone, but between two fingers,          
as a rare and fine beryl of jade.          
         
I am but A pebble to the winds thrown away        
wanting to mean something to someone        
but existing as nothing to no one.        
         
Never the celebration heard for being the missing piece found.          
Let me be art for the artist.        
weight for the weighing of gold,        
decor in a mosaic, A giant slayer,       
or hold sentiment for a king's crown,        
a good thing, a solution, a skipper on the water,        
and no more like the sad frown of a clown.        
         
         
Anything,          
just anything,          
but an accessory to the ground...