My Table

I placed the table of my life,

before the noon day sun,

collecting the shards

of ceramic cerebral crafts,

adhering them to the top,

meticulously placing the hues

from my medley of mishaps

so the décor would have

the illusion of reason.

 

It hid the scars

incurred when the china

used to sup on leftovers

scratched to deep into the surface.

 

Each day I dusted and cleaned

this montage,

which I thought was cleverly prepared

so eyes would admire

my turning wounds into beauty.

 

But the glue didn’t hold

and I constantly had to redo the image,

growing weary from the steady chore.

 

Wasn’t till I used it

for holding coffee cups

when serving lunch to friends

that I discovered the façade assortment

never fooled anyone.

Thought for the week: "If there is life after death, does it comes with a tax?"

 

Learning sometimes

tiles I thought I could use

to protect the truth

only make for an unimpressive array.