The Broken Place
Go to the broken place. The place of proof of pain.
The damage there is but a hint, a clue of what was.
The collision of experiences, a lashing out and receiver.
There is no one truth but a decision to be made with endless possibility of shading, in each moment another choice.
The shards of glass and rock tell one story, no longer a window to one view.
Set free of space and place, there could be, one day, sea glass.
What am I now, here? Broken, bleeding, swollen, healed or all?
Can bud and bloom be at once? Am I becoming or complete?
What in this moment is real, what I decide or what I can recognize or is it all the same, coexisting or simply my imagining?
Go to the broken place to see and be.
I am in a broken place, one of many, I have lost count.
Not that it matters. The hurt is only real in my mind, my choice of pain.
Are all wounds imagined? Can I heal or is this another illusion?
Is being other than I am unnecessary? Is once or twice imagined no more than never thought?
Real or not, go to the broken place.
Discover, realize, decide.
And once I think I have finished, I see or feel and know there is another journey.