We are all born broken,
as fragmented pieces of what came before us.
A pointed shard of glass
born from a sailor’s bottle,
tossed from the ship’s deck.
Shattered, splintered,
and swallowed by the sea.
Ship overhead, shadow cast downwards
as it sank.
It was carried to shore,
battered and bitter
like the boatman who broke it.
It might have passed me by
had I not noticed its hue,
blue eyes always searching.
I held my gaze, in awe of
soft shades of sapphire
that mirrored mine.
It was sharp against my hands,
with its ruby stained edges
and my scarlet smeared palms
painted crimson in pain.
My grip nearly faltered,
the glass nearly tossed from my hands
and dashed against the rocks.
But its sharp edges
gave way to a center
of soft sapphire.
I held it to the light.
Bright rays pierced through its middle.
My eyes widened.
It started as simple patterns,
meaningless red and blue
cast across the sand
without form.
We are all born broken,
as fragmented pieces of what came before us.
A pointed shard of glass
born from a sailor’s bottle,
tossed from the ship’s deck.
Shattered, splintered,
and swallowed by the sea.
Yet as patterns become shapes,
light transfigured by sea glass
and soft shades of sapphire,
there is something more
than what once was.
Patterns become shapes,
shapes become pictures,
pictures become stories,
and I become
something new.