Ecclesiastes 9:11

With shards of broken poetry I scrape afflicted skin
in hopes the cleansing ritual will let the healing in.
So long the troubles have collected on my silvered head,
so unexpected, unforeseen the blows I could not dread.
Until the pit of pain is spread beneath my life of chance;
in pain I walk the tightrope, pausing in a knife-edge stance.
Though time may be the healer, it is time applies the brand,
and so I sit and scrape a bit, broken poetry in my hand.
HJ Oct 2009