Standing in front of a broken mirror,

Shattered into numerous flawed pieces,

Observing hundreds and thousands of forms of the same visage,

Resulted from the level of collapse it suffered,

Showing diversified forms of brokenness,

All irregular, all awkward.

Its thoughts, its existence, all filled with piercing small particles,

The feeling, the suffering appearing clear to the onlooker,

The mirror and the watcher looked towards each other,

With some hope, for some consolation, for some healing,

But their wounded reflection that they can see through each other,

Informed them of their incompetence.

But, knowing all about their flawed existence and ineptitude,

They attempted to put pieces together to appear complete,

The watcher took a large canvas,

Spreading the odd pieces with bleeding hands,

Spreading a number of paints to the brokenness,

Gluing everything together with excellence,

And converting all into a masterpiece,

Of himself and the wrecked.