A #poem I wrote long ago:

I found once
a gold painted,
peeled plaster
Buddha
that I saved
for no other
reason
than the hole
(rubbed through)
in his belly
(worn out)
that convinced
me
he was a man
for whom
wisdom
did not come
easy

==

Posting because someone in my stream posted "My Cracked Wooden Bowl" by Ryokan, and it reminded me of the above.

Not that I think I compare to Ryokan, but the theme of worn / damaged objects resonates with me...