All my life
has been
the belief
I am
a broken toy,

in need
of something
other
for completion's
sake,

without which
I am doomed.

We're all
probably
a bit
like this,
though the it
sought
varies.

I was nearly 50
before challenging
incompleteness
itself,

and even then,
that sense
I'm flawed
remains
not much farther
than the closest
nearby
shadow,

although
hardly anyone dies
from sitting zazen
and drinking coffee.

Progress is progress,
no matter
how mundane.