Picking pieces

We gather our semblance of finds,

Pieces of blue to match

Each mood that drifts through rooms

Like ghosts who speak

To those in tune to knowing.

We re-arrange them to suit

An image that soothes when wild winds blow,

That may bluster like a caterpillar,

Inching along waiting to become.

There is no glass for reflection found in the sea

As treasure becomes scarce we rely on relics,

Simple pieces that have meaning perhaps to

Just a solitary soul,

Who holds them close

And feels the history

Found.

Are our eyes closed when they should see

What lays before the vision suspended

As we duck below

Circumnavigating once more

Taking the long way home

To find the peace we know resides

Behind the shuttered shades of the mind,

Knowing the solace that lingers like a wayward hobo artist,

Snipping and crafting the words that sting

In their mark

We know the prophecy is no longer hidden,

Yet still scarcely known

Except by the silent one who asked for nothing

And was given the world

And I smile content for understanding,

For to acknowledge is to show weakness

Or that was what had been told,

And we are all different,

Like bits of glass gathered,

Collected in porcelain bowls of beauty,

Yet still considered broken

By those who see no wealth,

No recognition of value

That is always priceless

To some,

A cache of everything to one.

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