“The consequences of living in a broken world
is living with the consequences of brokenness.”
No one is born whole.
From the first broken light
of the washed out hospital bed-
the air static with the screams of life-
until the faded black resolve of
returning to the Earth,
you are the construction site,
the cracks in the concrete.
Sometimes stray daisies grow in the crevices
around your tattered soul,
adding life where blackness
threatens to stretch out.
Until you notice that daisies grow less often,
Poison Ivy bringing Nightshade
To take refuge in your cracks.
You try to pull them out but cut your hands;
you try to spray them but poison yourself;
you try to plant roses and daffodils,
great oaks to take root and spread life through your
veins, but the soil is depleted,
and the Nightshades stay when the
Poison Ivy has moved on
Slowly tainting you.
Until one day, you feel
the infertility inside of you crack;
you take water and begin to dig,
finding depth underneath the
deadly roots of those plants.
You dig until you strike light,
the inverted sky buried under the cracks
you had no control over.
You dig until the light bursts into life,
stretching your arms through Earth,
bringing soil into your bitten nails as
you pull yourself through
into a field of wildflowers,
a sun setting towards you.
You gaze at the world beneath you,
the sky illuminated with pinks and oranges,
and there are no cracks here.