Patchwork Thing

Broken parts
Accumulate the me
I am;

Pieced together
What it seems
On a whim-
Head, abdomen, and limbs.

Padding down ends of Scotch tape
In hopes that it holds.

So many holes,
Can you see my soul?
Dismembered me standing in place,
Am I exposed?

Crease the folds.

Broken eggs can relate.
Falling apart to date.

Life as this quilt stuck together.
Indifferent and varied, as the weather.

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