Rebirth
The passing years
through trembling fingers slip,
like worry beads
unsurely strung
along life’s fraying thread.
Sages, seers and cynics peer
and say when it will snap,
but why regard the
sing-song whine of those who
seldom glimpse their own demise?
Mysteries and magic
ventures, bold and tragic—
reason, rhyme and rhetoric—
will someday undistinguished lie
inside life’s tome, its legion seals intact.
But should some day a mighty hand
this fearsome book disturb
and turn the page that lets me fly,
on fairest wings of reborn time
I’d soar and find my way back home.
Copyright © Mark Peterson | Year Posted 2013
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