kintsugi dreams

a made up poem about a kintsugi dreamer.

unto us a child is born—

he grips my thumb, gentle—yet already sure.

even then you could tell this one was already cracked pottery,

destined to kiss the floor long before the rest of us.

i never was one for reading the story through.

so i skip ahead: the child becomes the teenager,

and like martin he had a dream,

but just like every dreamer—he had to wake up to reality.

he had no trust for himself, and that was the origin of his self doubt.

from where i stand, i can see a stream of tears.

grief and loss can increase the length of days,

and hours can sometimes start to feel like days.

people say death is the kindest way to lose someone.

death, you are not kind, you’re just impatient.

time is the hungrier mouth—it chews us slowly anyway.

just like sunflowers in snow, we are all going under.

perfect only exists in art and in your head.

the child is no longer a teen, he is now a man.

his cracks are visible they look ruined beyond repair,

strangers look at him with despair but he doesn’t fret.

he says to their hearing, being whole is just a start—it’s nothing but a path, a mere draft,

you should know that real art starts with a crack.

a cleft wide enough for light to pour through,

the museum became quiet, he cracks.

he waves his battle flag—torn but stitched with molten gold,

making it much more prettier than when it was mend.

a massive collection of his mistakes,

smeared with gold in between.

the child is dead.

a man is born.

he knows now what it means to have purpose.