Out On The Tiles

Each jagged edge bares its own unique pattern.
Patterns that diminish, but are soon recreated.
Recreated with similar differences, but not the same,
for "same" is just a metaphor for the truly impossible.

As each piece slips through lucent air,
they are preparing for their second decent.
A decent much less abrupt than that of the first,
for the first decent was all that mattered.

Now, that which was once whole, is shattered,
with each rise and fall pieces chip and settle.
Settle upon ground where they lay petrified,
(petrified to see?) their eternal bonds forever broken.

Noise of shattering dulls, a new sound emerges,
its pattern obvious to those who have fallen.
A shadow covers the remains of what used to be,
what used to hold God's most beautiful creation.

The shadow disappears, yet darkness remains,
sounds of a rain stick fill the empty room.
A quick silence, and a new melody occupies the air,
melodies of a bag slowly filled with undesirable candy.

Tiny pieces left in the light are soon overwhelmed,
brushed under the stove where I stand exhausted.
No longer does my vase stand stocked with roses,
no longer is my apartment filled with their sweet aroma.

Watching the vase fall I realize our similarities,
analyzing each moment of its decent as my own.
The initial fall, instigated by that of a mere bump,
a slight mishap, with a devastating outcome.

~Too many times we let minuscule incidents rile us up. All too often these incidents escalate into something unmanageable. If we just chill out and go with the flow, major problems can be avoided. Unlike the vase, when we shatter the pieces are a whole lot easier to pick up. Don't leave your pieces lying out on the tiles, pick them up and put yourself back together. Life is too short to dwell on the past.~