I am not singular, even if I am single.
I am composed of fragments of glass
that cut to the soul,
and surprise me with their fragility;
and then I look through the angled facets
to see the other side that
is dimly empty, that is refracted,
that is full, that is something,
that is nothing at all.
I am not always stable and love to wander,
this way or that,
up hills into the light
and down vales into light’s uncertain path;
but I also yearn, in some primal sense,
for the walls that make me safe
and then become my prison as well,
for I fear in the midst of here,
as well as seek the power of self-love.
So, this is me, but not all of me:
the pilgrim of fragile parts,
seeking and learning,
wandering and wondering,
secret and open,
fearful but exploring,
looking up to the sky from the hill
and looking below at the dirt that
contains all I am,
but nothing of me at all.