The Mirror at the Bottom of the Bottle

30 painful pennies,

3rd degree burns.

60 purified pennies,

My stomach turns.

90 priority pennies,

I begin to learn.

180 prestigious pennies,

For one more I do yearn.

270 precious pennies,

Hidden in the ferns.

If granted a replied reprieve,

The worm cocoons and weaves it loom.

Born a sinner, die a heathen.

Rough carpet scratches vague advice into bare skin.

Familial tears dilute the last drops of therapy.

But malleable leather can be weathered,

And cruel hide can terraform into a dandelion circle.

365 pennies.

600 skirmishes.

A discarded bottle cap transformed, 

Flipped between hands of different lives,

Perhaps a good word?

The weight of the world makes me kneel, praying:

“God grant me the serenity 

to accept the things I cannot change, 

courage to change the things I can, 

and the wisdom to know the difference.”

456 pennies.

602 skirmishes.

Over indulgence, chase the chase, 

Doubled edged heirlooms.

My grandfather passed on his ceramics.

Burn me, I don’t believe in the Lord and Saviour, Jesus Christ.

547 pennies.

603 skirmishes.

My dad inherited a singular, soulful, soft medallion.

I collected quarters — Longing and infatuation.

When I was a kid I dreamed of that gold coin.

“Dreams come true in indirect ways,”

at least that’s what my Mom said.

The chip I’ve earned may not be gold but is evermore precious.

It is the latest of many but the daily penny will not make it my last.

730 pennies.

Infinite skirmishes.

A rare two year eclipse.

Born a sinner, die a heathen?