I turned it over in my hand This broken piece Of self Traced the cracks Noted the gaps Counted the missing particles Now marking A pristine floor
A broom passed by Grabbing flecks that soiled This hallowed place.
Its bristles shush My shameful grief Watching In silence
I should have protested asked for time Told my story Before This piece of self Crumbled And I was left to mourn.
Alone Or so perceived
Untill Generous Silence Gave them back to me Cupped In recognition Bound tightly With the string of memories As I prayed
He gave no rebuke As bits poured into my hands Losing fragments Between hesitant fingers He helped me count the loss That again littered marble paths Highlighted against its wealth As human filth
He waited Cupping tears that spilled Adding his own to the soiled floor Besmirched in regrets as thick as aged blood
Patient He shushed the onlookers Ready to jeer the fallen
Then I was ready He pulled each speck to himself Dirtying his own hands to lift my loss Into his apron furled It was him who shook my remnant free Of any last dust It was my King who carried my shame Out the door And when returned Knowing it no more