It is important to note
at this time of woe:
It was not the brooms fault
though it suffered the most.
Telltale drops of blood like beads
decorate the white-washed wall,
but by all means, no one
must disturb the evidence.
Such humiliation; to be broken.
Poor thing can’t even cry
or die, but remains
piled piece by piece
upon its truly cracked-up self.
What beautiful fibers
cling roughly to form.
A handle, which was the body, knows
that sweeping is now a thing of the past
Broken, but not banished.
Worse than a stranger,
it was the long-lost boy,
dear and familiar,
who delivered the first blow.
But the second blow,
is what finished the deed;
sent splinters and ripped-out straw
to scatter across the floor.
Bring out the confetti.
Let us bury the scraps.
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