/var/poems/current.txt
ONLINE
The Shape of Intent
Earl David Freeland
It’s not the polish I crave,
not the gleam of stone ground smooth—
but the jagged edge,
the truth of its breaking.
I choose the crack,
the uneven seam stitched
with trembling hands.
The pulse of the real hums there,
in the spaces others smooth away.
Let them say it’s luck,
let them call it serendipity.
They don’t see the hours
spent weighing words like coins,
intent carved into the lines,
sharp enough to draw blood,
strong enough to bear the weight.
The shards won’t align,
colors clash at the seams—
but in the hands
that place each fragment,
they carry what can never be whole:
grief, hope, the ache of meaning.
Even mosaics crack.
Even tiles split under pressure,
their edges splintering,
scattering like light—
each shard spinning,
flickering,
casting shadows
where the untamed waits.
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