Remember the shards of glass 

before wrists slit by fate. 

We’ve been of a predetermined-ness, 

roads they’ve set and prescribed 

which we’ve walked, no, waded 

as floods overtook we, a people 

bounded to their roads 

with not so much as a glimpse. 

Is that where we go from here? 

Is it fear beheld, self loathing 

burning more than resentment, 

living in a house of demons? 

I am broken like 

the glass crying out to me, 

cutting me, 

bleeding me to death, 

and it’s my fault? 

No.  

There may be no love, 

There may be no hurt. 

There may be no anything 

but to fly, to take flight 

effervescent and pop, 

returned to the air. 

There is neither true kind 

nor fault in broken glass. 

There’s truth lying elsewhere, 

in something once whole 

perhaps borne of the Broken 

who yielded Love before 

she yielded Brokenness. 

I’ve a kind. 

We know better 

than good/bad binarism, 

unforgiven wrongdoings, 

rebuked shortcomings. 

We are you, for we, too, 

forget sometimes. 

We, too, are 

Primal  

and 

Human. 

We are. 

We are truth.  

I am. 

I am of the broken I am, 

and I’ll not be swept up.  

I’ll not be blown away. 

I’ll be them;  

with them; 

we’ll be here; 

and you can find us 

in melody, enduring, 

believing and breathing, 

for, yes, we are 

the inhalation of this world 

and exhale, 

an honesty, 

the comings 

and goings 

of times, 

a  

constancy.