The shards lay
scattered:
cohesion gone,
they carry
no pre-catastrophic memory.
They are broken.
The whole has gone,
disassembled
into a broken past.
Searching the sharp bits,
the jagged edges,
the flaked chips,
you see no clues
of what was,
previously,
complete.
You never discerned
the fault lines,
the weak spots
in a pattern
that was,
ultimately,
flawed.
Set aside
thoughts of repair,
ideas of restoration;
rebuilding
something better.
Sweep the pieces
into the dustpan
of a misunderstood history:
forget instead
the broken mess
that shattered,
and scattered,
but in the end
mattered little
to the reality
of what will be
your tomorrow.
