What Maketh Thee?

 And some days, when the sun hits the right spots,

Damned old shadows leak through your cracks.

It is when you know you are kintsugi,

Molded of crossed paths.

A long journey creates self, bears bumpy stops;

Expect hitchhikers from no man’s land,

Runaways of Omelas, maybe moonshiners soared.

A new person rises with each dawn, under your wrinkled skin;

A marvelous marbled mosaic with sewn gold linen.

Take no blame or regret but little souvenirs from each;

Carry your defects; remember, we are all akin.

And one day, when the sun will hit your right spots,

Those moldy shadows will leak again through your cracks;

So you will know you are but kintsugi,

Shaped by human breath.