He was broken.
But in the most beautifully tragic way,
Like a shattered piece of fine China,
Or a metronome that ticked without time.
He carried on in his controlled, chaotic manner.
Several attempts made to correct himself,
Glue himself back together,
Or put himself back in sync.
Only half repairing what used to be.
Still of use -
But not quite practical,
Not quite up to par.
A nudge and he would fall out of rhythm.
A bump and a few pieces would come loose.
Yet he always tried so very hard
To hide the imperfection of himself,
To paint himself dazzling, distracting colors,
To play the music too loud to hear the mismatched ticking.
Make merry and mask the fitful psyche underneath.