The world is Broken
The world is broken—soft, and sharp—
It fractures light in silent arcs.
I walked upon its jagged seams,
And found my shadow torn between.
The rivers ran with sorrow’s thread,
The skies bowed low above my head.
Each whisper of the wind confessed
The fragile hearts it once caressed.
I stitched my soul with borrowed stars,
And counted loss in quiet jars.
Yet even shattered things retain
A music born of quiet pain.
The world is broken—still I stand,
A trembling reed in God’s own hand.
Though cracks run deep, I breathe, I see:
Its fractures have not broken me.
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