You’re broken, your pieces chipped,
You’re broken, and no one can make you fit.
You’re a Ming Vase, now fragments,
Only archeology will ever care;
You’re broken and will never be whole again.
You’re broken and your veneer of vindication —
Masks a tattered soul.
In your desert of treasures, there’s no rain or mirages,
But you cry when they find you,
Clawing at your throat.
Skin crackled, lips parched.
And yet — love grows in you despite.
The tenure of years has you startled;
It has you petrified of all the nights you’ll remain—
Cold and numb.
You’re molecules of the shards of crossed stars,
Not innocent and spotless; .
You’re so broken because —
You never recognized we’re all lowly in life.
And fragments of dust, particles of ash,
Can never fit to form a person —
They’re the shards of one past.
But I’ve hope you’ll learn to stumble back,
To soar past what once you were.
Because although you’re in shambles,
Your soul still quickens.
The bees of insight hum with possibility,
Petals of strange blossoms reforming.
You’re not forever busted, even if people laugh —
If they call you crazy or curse you catastrophically.
Who cares what they say,
Don’t invest in those who abandon you.
Even when you sink, and Davy Jones is closing in,
Tentacles grasping or a sword’s swift reprieve.
You’ll survive another day,
There’s a reason you’re still here.
Not to falter, but to thrive despite your failures.
You’re capable and no one has to know,
The time you lay in bed and suffered,
Your visage is what you make it —
And few deserve to see beneath.
You were broken, but it’s clear to me,
Everyone is shattered in various degrees.
No tools will fix, no tape or glue,
We’re all shards of pottery, and only the Potter knows —
Each creation’s unique hues.
Only His skill can refine us —
But still, we’re broken and that’s how life goes.
Moments of bliss are ephemeral,
And monumental infinities immerse us in pain.
Rainfalls and disasters, the world drowning in matter;
Yet, we live for the seconds,
Where in silence we inhale serenity.
Our breath sobbing out puffs of frigid air.
Ashes to ashes,
But ashes arise;
And phoenixes’ know their destruction —
Means glory from their embers,
Few eyes perceive,
Brokenness makes one complete.
Amanda M. Eifert is a writer from Alberta, Canada. She blogs at wordpress - Mandibelle16 and you can find some of her recent poetry in an upcoming NaPoWriMo Anthology for 2020. Loves writing, dogs, and her dear friends and family!