And comes the fall.

And comes the fall.

With or without

The jagged edges

That cut and tear,

To leave sharp reminders

And serve notice

To the sorry traveller.

There is little

To be gained from

Softening the pitch.

The tumble

Is always graceless,

And all subtlety is lost

In the tangle of trials.

The measure

Of the man

Is in the making good.

There is no pleasure

To be gained

From polishing the

Bloodied edges

Of a beaten track.

It carries a grain

That will never lead

A fool to paradise.

With little disguise

It cuts the same cloth

Follows a well defined

Parallel line.

Brush it clean away

Bring the broom

To bear

And clear a space,

Big enough,

In your heart.

Lay down for a while

And watch old flames dance

From the comfort

Of a humble,

Homely hearth.

Perfect moments

Are hard to come by

With little time for rehearsal

In the great universal.

We can blossom

In the tender care

We give to the healing.

Stoke up the fire.

It can take the edge

Off the old cold,

And catch hold

Of the wisdom

Of simple truths

As they move in the flames.

Be warmed by them

Maybe then,

Will come a time

To carry the light

As it grows within,

Brightens the soul,

Turns night into day

And helps the weary

Circumnavigate

The worst of the falls,

That oft time,

Happen to us all.