The Mosaic
 
I heard the whispers of a broken past
That hit the ground and shattered into
A million pieces.
 
The pieces of my heart, my soul,
Of me - like grains of sugar
On the floor of life.
                                                                       So I prayed
 
And as I seek to gather
My pieces and hold them close
          To my heart -
 
I realize that they cannot be glued
Back together -
          At least not like they were
          Before.
                                                                       So I prayed
 
I gather the pieces,
          Piece by piece…
 
The blues of shattered dreams
The reds of broken promises
The deep greens of fractured trust
The purple of hopelessness
trying to reign supreme.
 
And as I gathered the pieces
          And pressed them together,
The pieces seemed to change
 
As I gathered the pieces
My picture seemed to change.
 
Creating a new picture of me
          to see a new reality, that
I am not the same -
 
No longer one dimensional
But the sum of my parts
All parts - the good, the bad, the ugly
The broken.
                                                                        So I praised.
 
My blues, reds, greens
And purple
Now sparkle together
Glittering in the sun of
Newness.
 
I am not the same
I am a new creature
Created in God’s splendor
                                                                       So I praised.
 
So when I hear the whispers
Of my past that seek
To taunt me
I remember
That I am the sum of all of my parts
          I am a Mosiac.
                                                                        Amen.
 
 
 
 Vernet Clemons Nettles, EdD
www.vernetcnettles.com
[email protected]
 
 
 
Taken from
 UnSpoken Words: Life’s Heartfelt Whispers
A Collection of Poetry
By Vernet Clemons Nettles
 
 
mo·sa·ic
/mōˈzāik/
 
noun
a picture or pattern produced by arranging together small colored pieces of hard material, such as stone, tile, or glass.
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