They’re broken, I know,
the one thing that might make the special is gone.
So why have I held on so long?
They’re not symbols of faith, though I have it.
They don’t offer forgiveness, though you may disagree.
Prayers are not answered with them, though they may be heard.
Men have fought wars because of their meaning, though not over me.
My little string of rosewood and charms hangs by the window ledge.
They’re deep red, sun bleached, and torn on one edge.
Rose scents linger when the wind is just right.
And if you listen they’ll tap out a rhythm; a song of the heart if you like.
It’s melancholy and simple and sweet to the ear.
Some might find tolerance in the songs that they hear.
As for me, they are hope, strung by a chain;
the remembrance of life touched by violence, anger, and pain.
Though something is missing, I don’t feel its loss.
What’s left is everything
and nothing at all.