Redemption

by Rita A. Flansburg-Simmonds

Ashes on the forehead
falling through lashes
make dusty tears
that hope to cry
to set things right,
like old and rusty errors
no effort
can affect
to forever
take from sight.

Nails will always bend
when struck
from any angle
but head-on,
and still we hammer
without light
and hope to hit
directly
correcting
darkness
with more night.

Come candle,
let hope
be not hypnotized
but heightened
in the blaze
of purest
light.