Fragile Gift (a poem)

Life is candy glass
In the hands of children
Imperfecta to a dreamer.
Why is it bestowed upon
we,  the undeserved,
The frivolous, the vain?
It is un-recycled,  unrepentant
Far more than we can preserve.

These tears are not my own
I am but a poor reflection
A shadow of the genuine
Only less refined, impure.
Why waste His time on this
If not for pure love?
A creature as I am – dirt and mud…
Yes, granted the greatest gift,
This inhalation,  this pulse,
This and every other new beginning…
I am candy glass
Yet built to endure eternity.

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