The kintsugi

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Whether it's peace or practiced grace,

A mosaic of chaos and a porcelain face.

Like grains of sand, a million wounds in disguise,

Swirled in colors that learned not to blend or rise.

You seek beauty and avoid the war.

You hear poetry, but not what it's for.

A rage refined, absurdly still,

Dances the line by stubborn will.

Reflective, ridiculous, cracked but divine,

I hold my ruin like a holy shrine.


-_-

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