Broken Things

Where is the thrill in the tranquil,
The furnace in placid solace?
What’s left to do when a puzzle’s full
But admire its emptiness?
Who else but our flawed reflection
Can we see hope of redemption?
Why do we yearn the fulfillment
Of fixing something so condemned?

We do not fall in love with people
But with madness and with broken things.
We crave to heal and mend the heart,
To sew the pieces torn apart.
We think that love rewards at last
So we take pieces of ourselves
To fill, and glue, until, alas—
We break.