Shards ground into the pavement as a nearly forgotten reminder of something broken. Something that was. Something that once mattered. Glittering in the sun.

To relate to that, the broken glass, the unspoken story of how it got there. A fading reminder of how it got there. Someone saw and took what they desired, leaving shards.

But what should happen if those shards were collected? Saved and respected? What brilliance shines in the sun when they scatter the light across the dirty walls unseen by those who don't care enough to look past the shards on the ground.

Perhaps I am like those shards, an incomplete mosaic of broken things. The superficial having been stolen long ago. Shards of a person who once was whole and beautiful, valuable, more than shards on the ground.