All The Broken Pieces

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
Perception is power.
But knowing is a burden.

Submitted: December 18, 2015

A A A | A A A

Submitted: December 18, 2015



A l l The B ro k enPi e ces


It wasn't her smile that won me over.

It wasn't her personality or her non-existent charm.

Her eyes were big and quite impressive,

But all the same I could care less.

Her form wasn't the image of perfection men often sought,

But I did love her voice, rough and satin smooth all the same.

But it wasn't that either.

I looked upon an imperfect vision, a broken girl in a worn out mental shell, wearing thin and begging for something to assuage her bruised heart.

And in love did I fall with every crack and splinter,

Every part of her shattered mind.

I remember watching her sitting alone on a stool, smoking her fourth cigarette, staring at the ground like it called her name,

As if a single name was enough for her.

I watched her there and from her chair, all around I saw the colours fall around her like drops of liquid mercury,

Slowly shimmering in a vacuum, with just enough gravity to pull them downwards with the rest of her soul.

I watched intently, she didn't know, but I stared as every drop of pink and red, magenta and green, violet, turqoise and blue, orange and yellow and what could only be described as sunset too,

Fell like a slowed explosion, from her, the epicenter, outward from a source of hidden beauty.

So I watched silent, as the silent bomb took another drag and the smoke blew upwards as the blast raged on.

The molten colour splashed the ground, radiating from her perch and body, but this was only the start of the show,

For I watched on as the glass rained down around her. Every scar and every wound on her not so perfect skin reopened,

And from each emerged a coloured shard, a razor edge, every color of the rainbow like that which came before,

And as each hit the ground each shattered even smaller, and before too long I watched her...

And she lit another cigarette.

For the briefest of moments the flash of flame that set fire to her fixation illuminated the disaster;

All around her the mess of colour, a mess of agnst and agony and bittersweet beautiful pain,

Not even Pollock could compare.

If either of us knew what a future could come from such a crooked wreck.

In that pitiful moment I stared at her as she bled out on to the floor, her lips wrapped loosely around the butt of her demise,

Her eyes drooping ever so slightly from her long night the morning before, her hair a nest for the rodents that kept her company...

It was then I chose, if unwillingly, and

I fell in love.

Without any sound

Or words spoken

I bore sole witness as her soul was revealed,

In all its glory, In all its wonderful devastation,

In all those broken pieces.

I offered her my hand, from my standing position in the far corner, and she acknowledged me, silent still,

by handing me one of her cigarettes.

© Copyright 2020 Farren N. Keys. All rights reserved.

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