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
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.