Sunday, November 3, 2013

Wreckage


Broken glass on bathroom tiles:
troubles materialized
by a frenzied fling of hand

There, my mind spills,
puddles accumulate,
carpet saturates
with content

A calm voice is heard
from a pleasant place,
made pleasant by her presence, 
down the hall of hope:

You've got it all wrong 
You've got it all wrong

That voice, ignored
many times past,
permeates my mind
while I stare
at the wreckage below

When I think myself impervious
to the vanities of life
That voice, calm voice,
reminds me, soothes me, 
when I shatter







  



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