initially- (the broken)
like shards of glass
but time passes
as the hands raise- and fall
shadows move- across dials
shapely from tall- to none
never ending-
(when everything has an end)
at some point-
the pieces no longer fit
nor form a single picture
no matter of effort
the edges are gone
but not the interior vision;
I wish this were more like armor
but even armor bears holes- in time
with battle, or even with idle;
I wish this were more like a reel
frame upon frame in perfect sequence
but even film diminishes in the crucible of years;
then, when these spaces are full
and a purging spring does come upon-
we filter and muster that which must move on;
for a vessel- by definition
is not infinite
not in diameter, nor circumference
there is no infinity ingrained in our soul
the simple truth of being
eventually all that we kept
breaks down unto molecules
lighter than even, breath-