who let themselves waltz with breezes and
who beat their bleeding chests, dancing 'round fires
holding the oxygen hands of hurricanes
Time takes an unsteady fist-full of their shards
because she's the only one whose skin is
impermeable to the cruel perforations
of protective edges and glass scythes
The broken ones cannot take up arms if their
frantic arms are pinned to their sides by the
marching embrace of time and weathering winds
Just so, I, the deadliest edge, will be made soft again
once my pieces are made so small that they can only caress
But small doesn't mean insignificant
it's just that a desert is vast
and a broken vase can only take up so much space
it's not what makes you up to be ornamental
but what you're made of
I'd rather bury forgotten things in the
affection of my blustery brokenness
than be a proud adornment that throws itself
on the floor again and again to warn of the
quake that's coming
no
the earth will listen now
for it's covered in me and it never knew
how much it needed me before
Lock up your houses all you want,
but I won't come knocking
'cause they're built on me
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