I do not know who
is the maker of the idol
but there it was, alive and well,
this thing I so desired.
A little time, a little more,
the idol was not so sweet.
It showed its wear, its shine was dull,
this thing I so admired.
The idol which deceives
is an idol weaving dreams.
It surely will delay
the coming of the day.
Fall, it must,
for an idol is a lie.
The treasure it would seek
becomes the wind-borne dust.
Fear not its death; a troubled tear,
a sleepless night, the idol breaks apart.
But in the morning, clean and white,
the idol leaves no mark.
Donna Goddard 