From dust I rise, a sudden sheen,
a burst of bright, precarious shard.
No perfect whole, no steady scene,
just limits etched, a life unbarred.
The urge to bind, a silent ache,
to fuse these parts, a fragile hold.
Each chosen seam, for freedom's sake,
a thousand unmade tales untold.
And for a breath, the form holds fast,
a mosaic sparked, a vital glow.
A conscious pulse, too bright to last,
defies the void where currents flow.
Then parts disperse, as all must drift,
a quiet, cosmic, silver rain.
But light, in breakage, grants a gift:
the memory of fire, the vibrant stain.
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