something out of a thing broken

rolling along and things are strange
mostly fine
but the dark of the car
on a surprisingly cold evening
smacks the tears out of my heart again

I want things

I want beauty for no reason that lasts
just
for making the moment
more lovely
adding beauty to emptiness
to pain
to confusion and fear

Because those things are always there.

I have these magic moments
not so lovely
where the past
pushes its way into my eyes

the world tilting in Washington Hospital Center
clawing at dirty, windows that do not open
spattered with raindrops

and things I thought
believed
were torn apart
before my eyes

what I am
what I hoped to be
were ironed out  and flattened and ripped...
then carved into
something
crooked, ugly,
wrong, but somehow whole

My job hereafter
is to fight to make the ugly
find it's way to lovely
even if only for a moment.

We do that, though.
Humans.
We take simple sparkles
that don't mean anything
we take globs of color
we take simple broken things
and make
masterpieces

So, I guess
I can do this.

I admit, it won't be clean
it won't be easy

But what act of beauty ever is?