It is ever-breaking fragile pain,
Thinly-strung lightning-flames.
It is stressing, tense, and pulsing life.
To force down grief, to strengthen strife.
It is flowing wonders' pouring heart,
A weathered, broken beggars' cart.
It is swimming through the sunlit air
On perfume-scented strands of hair.
It is sprouting springtimes luscious glade,
And lying down in burning shade.
It is a flashing trick of fading shadow,
In summer sunlights only meadow.
It is broken trust and spoken lies,
An angry haze in bleeding eyes.
It is sipping sweetness and pouting lips,
A flag of peace that snags and rips.
© 1998 Jason R. Michie All Rights Reserved