I want to climb into the mirror
that is a life, cracked by two much living.
Collect there all the pieces lost
in skewed lines, like spider webs of
Segmented with edges close
but off kilter, to many pieces of a ghost
out of sync and out of line.
Out of harmony and out of time.
I fear that I will find, to much skin
and to much bone to much blood
to make me whole.
And what of heart
and what of soul. Bees flown and blown
off course lost to wind and wave
or used up by life.
Whats left was tossed and sliced
on words with jagged edges
or pierced on arrows deep
to stone and clay and waves
all washed away.
To far gone to resuscitate.
Its all too little far too late.
© Dave Kavanagh @ daithiocaomanaigh.com