Marvel
What is beauty,
The ballet of pieces,
fragments,
once spread violently,
accidentally,
across the porcelain.
Chaotic action with a script.
A sage once said:
"What remains of us are fractions of a whole."
The harmony of being imperfect,
heaped of gravel and dust.
What defines,
anchors into the past.
Spill!
Reanimate.
Shed!
"But finally, one day, live the today."
I dreamt a day,
when the candle only shines light,
and objects refused to throw shadows.
That day,
assembly didn't demand it's subject to be broken,
For it no longer held meaning.
Nor did this world call for the assembler.
Finally dismissed, finally at peace.
That day,
everything came to,
and beauty was found;
not in perfection.
The harmony of all things broken.
And definition was no longer an imperative.
The mould voluntary.