I collect the fragments of yesterday
And the wispy tendrils of tomorrow.
Standing in a void of time
Wedged between the bulges of my hourglass.
I place memories and wishes
In a basket made of thorns.
My sweaty palm blisters
From its death grip on the handle.
A looking glass behind me mocks
Like wicked witch, cackling failure and doom.
If I turn, alas the fate of all men – death,
Will come too soon. But welcomed?
The Son pierces weighty clouds above
Called by songs of praise and love.
My mirror, enemy of my soul, backdrop of
a redeemed past.
Sparks, ignites like withered twigs.
The thorny collection on my arm
In a moment blazing offering
Of yesterdays, tomorrows and
Pours forth a mysterious fragrance
Of sweet, redeemed pain.