I Would Tell the World
We are breaking our own hearts.
Our fury and offense,
our anxiety, are evidence
of our brokenness.
We are too enamored of
the perfection
that only we can see,
too convinced of
the power of our hands,
our voices, our grit
and righteousness,
to pull our own heaven
from the muck,
too sure of our responsibility
to do so.
As if we were alchemists.
As if only we could see
the arcane wheels turning,
could understand pressure,
heat and time.
As if the conjuring
of gold and longer lives
was just and justified.
As if just our one self
was the only one self
perfectly aligned to what
must be for the whole
of everything and all time.
Broken and blind to it.
We believe we must
mend that which is beyond
ourselves, bend
everything to fit us.
And the failure of the world
to take its proper shape
shatters us.
Sad that we do not see
that to mend is to mend
ourselves. To mend
is to only love,
and in loving, find
beauty in flawed and
broken things.
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