So, months later I close my eyes
imagine the moment when
the world shattered.
And I ask,
How many times can it be pieced together?
We build stories together
except when we don’t;
a mosaic of untold truths
and half-forgotten lies
glistens and bleeds
beneath our feet.
Where is the healing?
The tender touch
in dusty corners and dressed in silent rain
churns into mud
of tiny shoots peeking through dark places,
chilled soil and things creeping blindly by
are fed with the hope of that glistening red.
Mixing into a paste, an edible glue