Bookends
Poetry
Life is luscious. Life is frayed.
Sometimes life is a series of bookends,
like two lions, ferociously trying to hold it all together,
the good, the bad, the fleeting cerulean moments,
each day a memory, a beginning and an end,
weeds plucked before the spirited sunrise,
flowers cut for twilight dinners
and the hair of silken iron maidens.
I dream of amethyst decades of crimson dawns
and notorious moonlight.
I awaken to a day throbbing like a pounding hammer.
Life without bookends feels almost chaotic,
toppled, unstructured, unmeasured.
Break me open,
sift through me,
unravel my deepest fears,
prick my soul to find
a fortress, an eggshell,
my yin and yang.
Are we bookends, supporting pillars,
or cracks within the glass?
A full moon rising,
impending endings and new beginnings,
leaps and bounds,
with a parachute to break the fall.
The next champagned chapter of life is etched in chalk.
There will be sunshine. There will be pouring rain.
And for those who believe the truth is written in stone —
there will be bookends.
© Connie Song 2023. All Rights Reserved.
