rain swept branches strewn,
small testaments of living.
frail egos broken
in morning sunlit pieces.
of such is life...
hands made of flesh
building hearts.
storms come unannounced,
and forever shattered.
the rain soaks the embers,
a thin wisp of smoke.
stirred by the stick of time,
praying for flame.
are we then fire,
or just smoke?
smalls branches clinging
to the tree...
lightning in the distance,
or hearts made of thunder?
buds on the broken branch,
or the fleeting instant
of the storm's fury?
all of these, or something else,
or a thought forgotten
by a lonesome God?
Eric Cockrell
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-thought-forgotten/
