i went
to some place in england:

there are times in life when our plans come to ruin.
when our glass of expectancy is
s / h / a/ t / t /e/ r/ e / d

and
we are
left

on our knees

to gather
sharp shards with bare hands.

(flesh cut deep
to draw crimson silk)

we may endeavor to heal the pieces
of our fractured dreams

--call that
courage or masochism,
as you will--

or we may endeavor to throw them away...

weeping,
for even the
smallest
p/ i/ e/ c/ e

still
catches
light as homage

`````````to

`````the
past.

Else we build Mosaics:
awkward scraps of

old

and

new

sealed together
by what
ifs?
and
ambiguity.

By perhapses,
and
others' outstretched arms.

To create
life
and
variance.
To create beauty.

To put the crimson silk in

sunset

and

sunrise.

:and came back, for now…?