shattered stills

There’s something comforting in broken glass;
its texture, for instance, is remarkable:
it can’t become the whole piece again,
and yet, the imperfection makes it palpable.
It cannot claim the vanity of gloss,
nor can it win the best of the awards –
and yet, for someone something that is lost
is worth so much until the point it hurts.


They are looking at me, sideways.
I’m confused yet again: always.
Was it something I missed, in the past?
I don’t trust any kind of flawless.

All the noise – peoplespeak, meaningless.
It’s too loud for everyone voiceless.
I am happy embracing the careless —
Their more is my so much less.