Burnt Offering

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.


Like a fragmented puzzle with a missing piece,

One little lost brain.

Hopeless shards of memories and plans.

Snatches of prayers and purpose,

Locked in a coifed box, then shaken and stirred.

No single thought carried to conclusion.

One little lost brain.

Creativity won’t fit with solemnity,

And tomorrow won’t agree with today.

Hours chased in a million directions.

An hourglass with no bottom.

Grains of potential spilling on the floor.