(Pic from Magpie Tales)
Plans, practice and accomplishments,
Seconds, minutes and hours of existence.
What I calculate skips through that keyhole.
The key turns; scenes change, a vague horizon.
When clouds float and stagnate at that hill,
When wind brushes by and goes so far,
Flashbacks and presents struggles to fair.
An eye stares over, over all passing things.
I struggle to hide, to catch a resting place;
But like creepy nightmares and rushing storm,
They catch me at all points, reminding plots.
Plots, meant to be played, meant to be well played.
I turn pages to take lessons; to start afresh,
But I have watched, that little bird yonder sings,
Sings, feeds, picks, cleans and lives every second.
I went back and picked my mirror from the attic;
Smiled, widely and sweetly, now those eyes don’t stare,
They watch, as I glide through life’s hills and valleys.
Let the clock tick, I am within my hold,
As his angels watch over.