Poetry from the Idea Stream

Kintsugi

A Spiritual Reflection on the Value of Broken Things

Photo by SwapnIl Dwivedi on Unsplash

Murder is an offense towards God — a breaking —

Yet, what am I, to God,
But a lump of clay
Thrown hard, centered,
Crawling as it’s formed —
A trivial lump that walks and talks,
Then spins itself off-balance?

What am I, to God,
But an idea formed —
When God was pissed and seething —
Of the subtle, sacred space
Between lightning’s flash
And thunder’s bass vibrato?

What am I, to God,
That my belief or disbelief
Should pose a major threat,
Or warrant a disaster?
I see casual clues, and yet…
Logic suggests nothing.

People should not be disposed of so easily.

But what am I, to God,
When whole and full of pride?
Bread is nothing, till it’s broken.
Likewise, the broken lump of clay —
Mended by the Potter’s hand,
Is useful, once again.