Mae Jewell

Broken memories, broken hearts, broken promises,		broken blossoming forth like oil

from a broken earth with broken people	       broken is the word

that breaks upon itself, broken is the person		that lies to himself.

A chipped piece, a cracked vase, the breaking		of this false face.

Perhaps it’s always been broken, perhaps always	     in despair and disrepair.

Broken shards of the false self lie upon this broken	world. Shards of both familiarity

and farce. He-no-longer places the pieces into something new. Shard upon shard, held together

with heart upon hope, moment by moment, a new form begins to take shape. The form fastens

the fractured shards, the cracks ever present. Something that cannot be returned to,

something that cannot be repaired, something that cannot be, that must not be,

undone. Though the fractures of a world long passed still line her,

she stands steadfast, both grieving the withering roses of the past,

and accepting the renewed, rejuvenated, rekindled form. The new self

arrives as a star settling upon the transcient sky, sharing her translucent

glow for all, shining brilliantly, brighter than the sky itself.

I set my sight upon the star, and I name her Mae.

May she outshine it always.