Reflections of a Globe
Shattered on the floor.
Tiny shards of hope looking for larger brothers.
Hoping to congeal, but, amorphous as they are,
too well formed to melt, meld and grow.
Once a whole piece.
Knowing that there were no individual dreams.
A perfect world, only imagined insecurities
of imperfections, fragility and individuality.
The holder is shamed.
No amount of glue can adhere the wound.
Death awaits for broken, no guidance awaits
with ability to collect, join, rebuild.
©2002 thomas busbee