Amid the pounding –
Of the past’s distant rolling thunder,
Memories are shattering in a shower of tinkling glass.
These mirrors of our lives reflect –
Who we were,
Who we’ve become.
A glass menage –
A fun house of distorted images,
Forms warped by the very substance
Of tomorrows reflections.
Night’s dark shadows cast.
Lying flat upon the landscape of this moment,
Sentinels of our passage
Toward the inevitable threshold
Smiling on a fools errand
The soul reclines
Upon a promise of salvation.
There are times when
We feel lost in the cauldron of creation,
Walking into the fog of ones kismet,
Feet dragging to slow the step.
There is no stopping along the way,
A pause is movement
So we continue,
Our path littered with life’s sparkling gems,
The mist of existence surrounds us,
We pass and become lost to time.
©2009, Donald Harbour