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Home » Poetry » Issue 3 » The Friday that Never Was

The Friday that Never Was

There is something to ponder about our mist-like life,
how it’s mirrored in the inner soul of a jacaranda bloom &
how its cupped blossoms turn a beautiful purple,
& suddenly twirl to the ground without sound, fury or warning.

I can imagine how the blossoms sashay
and glide to the ground, & then grey out like old, warped dreams.

I am thinking of life’s brevity now…
                        and how it can swing past as silently as mist so
when we thank God it’s Friday, we know little what lies beyond the hill
that can tear the crevices of our being into bloodless shreds…
how life can turn inside out in a blink
and leave you like the shreds of befallen jacaranda blooms.

It was seven pm when the news came in shreds that
the chariot of fire had tumbled into a wiry mass into the crevices of the highlands of the east;
we only learned later the driver had failed to turn a curve—
                        the bus lay on its back, wheels up in the air and
                        six young blossoms ripped apart.

Time’s skin broke till it stacked on top of itself as if nothing existed anymore
Our hearts fell apart into a thousand fractured pieces for our young blooms that
wilted away before their time
on that Friday which began with thanksgiving to God.

With shattered hearts, we now wake up
to the sun kissing the morning &
patterns and circles that are part of life.
Lines of poetry still whisper softly to the brokenness of our souls
& a wound that will not fester
till eternity come.