Infill

 

Where do we fit,

between the lines,

into the spaces.

Is it only the gaps,

those fine fissures

in life that we

share with all?

 

Is it that we are

just so much putty

for the glazer;

there to hold the fabric

strong?

 

Or is it that we

are the glue,

that which binds us

tightly to one another,

are we the dust,

or the stars?

 

I know not.

 

If we be dust,

and only a minor

irritant, then what

have we gained,

but if we be stars …

if we be stars

then our light should

be as bright

as the heavens.

 

We know not.

 

For now infill

is the word,

the one word that

describes us best,

unsure of our

place in the whole,

battered by our existence.

 

We are still

a work in

progress, a bit

of clay for the moulding,

with brilliance

in our eyes.

 

 

By: Glenn D. Clarke

September / 2009