A missing piece, gone.
The fracture, razor sharp.
Porcelain left splintered,
bereft.
Forgotten.
It is still strong,
This broken cup;
Streaked and cracked,
Containing fluid,
held together by physics.
I am not jagged,
Nor cold
By comparison.
I fill up my missing parts
With skin and cells.
If there could be
a machine to see such parts re-grown,
I might seem to some
like a patchwork in shades of brown,
warmed up from the morning sun.
My thoughts are glue,
And from the ashes I build
Pulling from that land of fragments lost,
those worthy of being up-cycled, reframed
Made back into a cup.
This cup which I hold,
My container and me,
Sustainer, maintainer.
A home, and yet fluid,
Held together by the stuff of stars.
The fracture, razor sharp.
Porcelain left splintered,
bereft.
Forgotten.
It is still strong,
This broken cup;
Streaked and cracked,
Containing fluid,
held together by physics.
I am not jagged,
Nor cold
By comparison.
I fill up my missing parts
With skin and cells.
If there could be
a machine to see such parts re-grown,
I might seem to some
like a patchwork in shades of brown,
warmed up from the morning sun.
My thoughts are glue,
And from the ashes I build
Pulling from that land of fragments lost,
those worthy of being up-cycled, reframed
Made back into a cup.
This cup which I hold,
My container and me,
Sustainer, maintainer.
A home, and yet fluid,
Held together by the stuff of stars.
A story or a truth often gets lost in words that sound good. Trying to construct from what most consider worthless is the supreme art of recycilng and giving life to the lifeless.
ReplyDeleteI like to find the sublime in the mundane. Thanks for your note! ��
ReplyDelete