Kaleidoscope

The cylinder spins;

The pattern changes.

Myriad bits of broken glass,

Fragile shattered dreams,

Colors bright and dark,

Opaque and clear,

Ever-shifting pieces,

Ever-changing connections.

Lovely, like rose windows,

Or surreal, like Man Ray’s nightmares.

But then, when you least expect it,

Some unseen hand twists the cap,

And the cylinder spins again.

 

By Kerry Vincent © 1990

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