the image of god

can sometimes be confused as the i. the i tried to capture - heaven. in a bottle. in a glance, in a treasure box whisked away; a coin thrown into the well and the well does not grant wishes. a hallucination, a delusion, felt quite real - us arms in arms up the hill: and time stops. i wished time stopped. rushed ahead many years till the old well mourned for a reflection, this silent prayer, could be you. cracked image, the puzzle is sliced apart - not quite innards, just missing threads, forgotten advice because a moment became eternity, etch away, scribes try to write down the words already forgotten. a forgotten myth. with raging angels flinging damnation for trading cards. and one by one, the soul lost - the heart beat, the flesh gained temporal heaven. full stop. an image turned wrathful, when i sought the impossible, the wishing well asked for coins, i asked for prayers, then found myself confused over maker and creation. it was like the last joke, if it can be said as such, when an image became life, life took the force of god - not in a stop. a flowing wave, a melody, a sigh, a breeze, a cyclone, a dare devil though i skipped a few lines: rushed to the end, hoping to find the conclusion i wanted. then the well sung a wishing song - hard to miss in those troubled times; a song when song and devil were arms in arms, each grinning to each as best friends forever though it just really goes to show: a period, a stop, an ending means a cut, a fall, a folly when a journey's end was never the right question. arms in arms with a wishing well whose song has now died down, i can still hear her sing ... ... not mine.