The spirit shattered


I’ve never seen
the fractures
in my soul,
but I know they run
through every inch
as surely
as the mountain
has no mother
and the bird
no secrets
from the gusts
it rides.
I wish I could say
those corners
are rounded to perfection,
but this sculpture
is made from
raw, jagged stone
and the endless mistakes
of time, not 
a silky ether 
with no memory 
or a stubborn shadow 
one step above 
and to the left. 
And yet they are 
home, as familiar 
as my own skin, 
each fracture 
but a question 
picked up along the way 
but never answered, 
and the unknown 
is no more threatening 
than a wish 
left unfulfilled.



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