Shattered

Shattered pieces, scattered across the floor
They catch the light, reflect it back to the source
And lay quiet
Dark
deserted.
Shattered pieces of something proud
Something that had some beauty, yes
But had more flaws.

Is it better to be broken,
Rather than be imperfectly formed?
Better to be shattered
Than whole and wrong?
Each piece, lonely in its resting place.
So unutterably lonely.
The light no longer gleams.

Each fragment, worthless on its own
But together?
They can make something lovely…
Or something horrible.
In the end, to be shattered is less a travesty
Than staying the same
Staying flawed.

A light draws nearer, an intense, brilliant light.
The pieces on the floor melt
Coalesce
Reform.
The process is painful, not nearly as quick, as merciful
As the moment of brokenness.

The pieces form something of beauty
The lines of where it has been broken remain,
But the lines remain to be a lesson.
To be shattered is hard.
To be reformed is worse.
But the end result?
That’s where the beauty lies,
for in the result
Is the meaning for the pain.