Petals dying, on edge of glass,
Crumbled to ashes, sent to the past.
One's own birth does one foresee. . . .
Is it you? Or maybe me?
Slipping sand, yet time's aplenty . . .
When one controls the self, not destiny.
But yet impatient are we still . . .
To keep in what we really feel.
To let all fall, be known outside,
Not keep within, a thing to hide.
For like the flower, in first line gone,
You must make yourself, to be, to belong.
But why do some still hold back?
Are they afraid of what may lack?
Never to see, how would we know
To know that's not the path to go?
They wouldn't, couldn't, and does it matter?
Their world, the glass, can it not shatter?
Jim Joseph Harkanson