or our sight fails as we squint through
half closed silhouettes, praying for days of lives.
Are we broken things-pieces of porcelain waiting to be broken further?
Awaiting reincarnation in the hands of the potter-
to turn into important ornaments for his household?
How much more should we be broken before SHe notices?
Will these pieces of us be there still, when the sun rises?
Will SHe build a mosaic of our memories with them?
Will the artist in him fold the canvas of what our lives have been,
and like a bad thought toss it into oblivion and get licked by flames of damnation.
Will His faces glow or contort from the flaming embers of the flames
Or will he choke with emotions as our pains color his fireplace-
our coats of many colors succumbing under the anger of His flames.
Will he wish he fixed us before we wandered into nothingness?
Or this will be his Requiem for a badly done piece of art?
Where is SHe-the fixer of broken things?
Does SHe slumber as the second hand of time ticks?
Does SHe smile as the work of His hands wisps away lazily like fluffy clouds of smoke?
Is SHe in control of the free-will placed in the hearts of men?
Or is there a chance for our innocence to be saved from the mockery
of nature’s ability to fix broken things in its own timing and leisure?