Still

Through a broken looking glass,

darkly,

I glimpse sometimes

 a harried someone

flying past, frantic

as a white rabbit 

fretting over a pocketwatch,

seizing onto shards of

self-importance and sometimes 

microscopic broken bits of meaningfulness.

She hastens by,

Archimedes-like, panting

labored breaths of 

“Eureka! I have found it!”

Weighed willingly down

by these ever-dense 

play theories of life,

she brandishes her shard 

like a sabre that has been sharpened 

(yet never to the point)

in her mind, 

the martial ruler of make-believe domains.

Ruling and running,

heedless of slippery puddles

of partial realities 

dripping 

from her “sabre.”

And then we fall 

she and I 

me and her

(the two of us the same,

if separated by the glass).

But when we fall,

that is when the image 

in the mirror is clearer.

I see, once more, myself,

broken and bleeding for a bandage,

and remember that 

shards, like scissors,

and flawed philosophies,

are dangerous running partners.

I remember also 

the Good and True 

running partner with me, even

Still.

And that is the word He whispers.

Photo Credit: Pixabay; Edited on SuperPhoto App