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
Takes light
In a moment blazing offering
Of yesterdays, tomorrows and
Pours forth a mysterious fragrance
Of sweet, redeemed pain.
An awesome, searching write, Abby. Well done!
I counter it with this: http://charleslmashburn.wordpress.com/2011/12/14/wow/
I loved your reflections of the mirror (no pun intended!).
Painfully beautiful.
Wow! I love this one!
So lovely! Abby, this is a fabulous poem, well done 🙂 Blessings, Terri