Poem for a Sunday

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.

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