Fixing: broken

Humans are
weird.
Only we have the compulsion,
the addiction to fix the broken.
Tight, we tie it with strings
Closer, each loose ends stitched
Snug with droppings of gooey white
glue.

Ponder:
What if this ‘broken’ trait’s
part of the scheme?
If by design it is scattered
its flaws lingered?
Too late
Would we have altered
too much of the pattern?

But we
were the broken shards
— the result of a kiss
between rock and glass
We
were the pulpy mess
— when water found it too
irresistible
to leave the paper alone.

We are the shredded bits
forced down to hug an office shredder
We are the disembodied flakes
from one big cloud
resting on a sometimes blue,
sometimes gray,
sky.

We are broken.
And we might not need fixing —
none of the stitching,
the gluing,
or the tying.

We need not
recollect innumberable shards
of our selves
Every bit and space
Everything was part of the scheme
part of the losing.

Bull-headed crap!
What good would it bring
to tend on those parts?
If we gather them now,
wouldn’t we lose the chance
to collect new ones?
Those puzzle pieces
sitting open on patient creased-hands.

I think it greedy to grab both
the broken
and the new.

Forget fixing —
it is time
to just live.

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