I had with me a picture,
And yet it seemed but half,
One edge jagged and incomplete,
Awaiting something it lacked.
It was already a beautiful image,
With colors so vivid and so real,
It seemed to live and breath,
With a vaguely familiar feel.
It depicted a living day,
With sun bright and air clean,
Birds flew, flowers bloomed,
All so like a dream.
And then I realized,
The picture was of me,
But where was the other half,
And what could it be?
Pulling my eyes away,
From the me I never knew,
I looked around me for a piece,
That might complete my view.
Scattered all about me,
Like a puzzle's broken fragments,
Were picture and potrait,
Of beauty, joy, and lament.
Every manner, every thought,
Lay conceived in an image that lived,
Each missing a single piece,
That it could be whole with.
I knelt and chose a shard,
A grassy knoll by a waterfall,
It seemed refreshing, in all ways lovely,
And I answered to its call.
I fitted it with my piece,
But they would not be one,
Each rejected the other,
Each finding some imperfection.
Many pieces I tried,
Some nearly the same as mine,
And some would fit my piece,
Only to form a world marred and unkind.
Then I saw one piece,
So very different from my own,
Sprinkled stars in a cold night sky,
So beautiful, yet very alone.
But it fit, somehow,
And my picture was now much more,
It was still the same image,
Yet deeper than ever before.
Sunlit days and nights of stars,
Every beauty lay within my soul,
The other half, I think, is fairer,
And without her I cannot be whole.
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