Missing

I was that child who insisted on picking up strays,

Dragging them home, wrapping in blankets,

Building them up and then setting them free,

If free was what they wanted to be.

 

I grew as that child, picking up whatever,

I found it fascinating how broken things shine,

After you take a proper care of their cracks,

I fell in love with every shattered shell.

 

I was going through life helping here or there,

Sometimes getting a smile, something getting a glare.

It was fun, and I was happy and nonchalant,

Until I stumbled on a heart that crumbled.

 

It lay in the dust, barely beating, badly torn.

I looked for the master. I found none.

It was impressive how it manged to stay alive,

Detached from its original form.

 

I watched for eons, thinking did I need one?

I mean I already had an uncontrollable rascal.

But it was bleeding, and I couldn’t run,

So, I offered it to rest in my own battered chest.

 

Now it lives inside me. It’s healthy and bright.

I think, I adore it more than I probably should.

It’s truly magnificent. A single delight,

But I wonder who suffered a plunder?

 

So, I nudged it a bit. I encourage its voice,

May be someone is missing their piece.

We’re looking for them. We’re searching,

For better or worse…

Listen, may be, it’s yours?

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