Cracks are ugly.

In the deepest recesses of my fragments,

of these displacements in my being,

I ooze shame from its niches.

What good is a shattered artefact?

What use comes from shards of glass,

of hazardous pieces,

from a display of beauty once whole?

Flawless, undamaged prisms reveal colour

in the presence of light.

Yet blood draws when the jagged edges cut

into my hands as I desperately feign completion.

A man's tongue once uttered

"In clarity comes peace".

A philosophical scam, I dare say

for this disjointed reflection is clear

and all that came was resentment.

But as I sit and stare, pondering, wondering,

in the complexities of the human mind,

is splendour limited to the eyes of only one person? I digress.

There will never be romance in being reduced to remnants. Yet there are those peculiar enough

who will happily collect your pieces

and create new hues with you in the light.

And I found them.

In my misaligned state of crystalline scraps

I found them.

And what joy it is to be assured

that shards are still capable of iridescence.