Through the shattered pane,
of a broken window,
I look out and see a fragment,
of a day that was, but is torn.
A flower growing without a name,
in the ever shifting garden,
of my minds vague mirage,
it's petals crumbling into dust.
The image of what was,
now drifting in the lake of time,
the ripples distorting it's features,
as it disappears beneath a lily pad.
Clouds racing across a blue sky,
searching in vain for the sunset,
weeping for that which they have not found,
As I retreat to hide within the spiders web
4th January 2011