The Shattered Plate

I stand above a shattered plate
that’s fallen from my fingertips.
And though I know that it’s too late,
I cannot help but dream and wish,
that love was true and love was real,
and everything I think and feel,
could be understood by someone who understood me.

I try to pick the pieces up
and maybe with some prayer and glue
(ooh! now my finger’s cut)
I can make it look like new.
But childish dreams and childhood ways
are passing with each passing day,
and all the prayer and glue and tape can never restore the plate.

And so I to the cupboard go
and gaze a while upon the shelf
but hesitatingly and slow
and carefully aware of self,
I entrust a fragile China dish
again to my fingertips.
But can all my surety my fears remove?

And so I take into my hands,
this fragile life once again.
but all the best laid plans,
are only those of mice and men.
I may have to weep once or more,
as I kneel upon the floor,
and see my sin and human need, my want... and bleed.