memento mori

Once upon a time,

I had a crystal ball, a beacon in the mist-

small, a prime example

of a campfire spreading.

It inspired, I let my friends

twist it in their palms,

watch it refract light.

It always returned intact-

sometimes smudged or dull,

in want of polish yet free of crime,

or so I judged.

I suppose I knew it might

come back in need of slight repair,

some glue, a thing or two:

certainly no more than light sanding

(somehow that never stopped me

from handing crystal over)

My mistake, to lend it worry-free;

careless to believe it wouldn’t break.

Naïve, I extended my treasure

to a pair of azure eyes and let rise

an immeasurable rapture

of which I became captive.

Too weak to bridge the gap between

freedom and capture,

I found not all treat delicacy

the same as me. When at last

delivered, my glass lay unrecognized

as its past glory.

I weighed my choices, and I chose

(crassly, perhaps) to mend:

to spend endless hours

buffing rough edges

and gluing fragments

until it looked anew.

I set it on a shelf, but glass is not meant

to be let to dust. Breathing a prayer

and against my better sense,

I dared entrust it once more.

I must have forgotten my chore of the past,

how vast broken glass appears upon the floor.

This time, although it seared,

I blinked back tears and left

the pieces where they had fallen.

Once upon a time,

I had a crystal ball.