Whole
A Poem
It’s hard to say whether I’ll feel whole again
or if life has chipped away at me like a block of ice
sending shavings down my side that melt in the heat
It’s hard to think that I’ll never be whole again
but the evidence (of death) is overwhelming
and I think they took parts of me with them
My wholeness is a microcosm of a regular life
a microscope invading the pores of my sadness
and allowing me to wash away in my own tears
What if I am only half, one half of what I could be?
Would I still be a singular whole, made of parts
or have I dropped too much blood along the way?
Maybe wholeness is an outdated concept
because how can any of us truly be whole
when our attention is so constantly diverted?
Or maybe that’s yet another excuse of self
and since everyone else is mildly diminished
so, therefore, am I, unwhole if you will
Or maybe, finally, my whole has a hole
deep inside of my heart, something gaping
but not indicative of a lack of wholeness
