For all of my faults
and all of my mistakes,
these cracks don’t compare
to how my heart breaks.
In a fleeting word,
or a moment of haste,
unpolished hands can destroy
this beating vessel of clay.
But because I possess
obverse and reverse sides,
I’ve learned the death scene
and the arming-for-battle cry.
As a mosaic-ed caisson
with an innate purpose,
I concede to Rumi’s wisdom
in his reflectively-spoken verse.
When a piece fragments off,
I tessellate again,
because, “the wound is where
the light gets in.”