Reflection

There is something ritual about it,

the morning stock-take

of new imperfections

sleep softened but dawning

in the mirror’s first take cut.

 

Some can be teased or tweased

slipped beneath another skin,

of crafted contours,

folded to hide the everyday

not found anywhere but reality.

 

The tally builds like glass bottles,

one hundred hanging on a wall

but if one should fall

there shall be ninety-nine

and a smile to hide its absence.

 

When there are none left to shatter

you will see the shell crack,

hollow and so deathly dark

even the light whimpers, wanes

and withers into something cold.

 

 


 

Daily Post: Ceremony

The Clocks

They forget that we mortals are tied to the clocks

Lashed to the turning of gears and old cogs

While their youth remains endless and death a rare myth

Our years roll by and so grows life’s rift.

 

Her beauty entranced him when the gardens were young

And the rose bushes held buds still to be sprung

But restlessness grows in the white of new wings

When the promise of flight in the wind whispers and sings.

 

She’ll forget that mortals are tied to the clocks

Lashed to the turning of gears and old cogs

And the gardens will bloom in the promise of spring

But mortal hands will stop when the final chime rings.

 

So she’ll lie across steps where their feet once fell

And the memories of smiles can still yet be held

For his bones have been lost to the passing of time

To mix with the soil from where the ivy does climb.

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