cracked in shipment
and I had such high hopes
it broke the violet ones
amongst all others it could've
This is a story then
one of those whiskey ones
spoken to my other selves
who seldom converge
and when they do, they mock
"Here is some glue"
"why do you worry"
"order more as always"
"it always is the case"
"why not give up?
questions
of selves
to me
Le roi est mort, vive le roi!
and some other incoherent words
Pity,
I cannot for me
"Purple ones are pretty too"
"alter your choice"
"there are other colours too you know!"
"Right", I say to my personas
Sleep
others have things too
your waking is a flaw
your banter is not much less
sleep
"not that sleep!"
more such voices
Here then
poetry
or somewhat
stylized
burnt
deprecated
stop
here
now
"fine"
I need to order violet beads
three extra strands then
of lampwork beads
pretty
"why not order chrome yellow ones?"
"like in a sunflower?"
"they are better!"
"Right" I agree.
**Short summary:**
A shipment of fragile violet beads arrives broken. Instead of simple disappointment, the speaker fragments into arguing voices: pragmatic, dismissive, fatalistic, nihilistic. They can't decide anything because there's no unified "I" to decide.
But at the end, the voices converge. They realise chrome yellow, the colour of sunflowers, represents something resilient and life-giving. The scattered self stops arguing and makes a real choice: order both. The delicate violet beads that broke, and the yellow that grows toward light.
It's a poem about how internal conflict can actually lead somewhere. Not to giving up, but to choosing something larger than you started with.
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