Mosaic: A Poem on Brokenness and Healing | Thursday Verse No. 7

  Healing is never linear. Some wounds close while others open, and the healing touch itself can both mend or leave a mark of its own. Mosaic is a poem that lingers in that paradox of being broken and mended. 

Mosaic


Lifting me up

from withering into dust,

Your healing fingers touch my cuts,

only to complain that I leave you with wounds.

The pain, I know, is profound,

The sight of your blood painting the floor and the healing phase that puts you behind your door 

lands me

There on the floor,

lying cold and lone —

bruised and bleeding shard,

turning dust.

What do you expect from and for a tiny, broken piece of glass?


- Mercy Rebonica

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