I cry out to the sun,
The moon,
The stars at night,
And to the living One;
I pray with all my hope,
My desperation,
Patience,
And my tears that run;
I cannot tell a friend,
A foe;
A lonely opening,
To droves that sigh, alone;
In all my madness,
Rather haves,
And passing glances,
Can I stand, within each stanza,
That a man should mind his tone?
I do not fear: I dread.
I pled for my redemption,
When the lessons left a message,
That my soul might find its home;
Instead, I question this romance of messes,
Tepid, in address; from whence?
As Bottles on the sea,
Wake from their dreams,
To find the foolish folly of their gleaming bones.
How can I atone?
I know of naught that frees me from this lock and key,
Bemoaned atrocities; a slowing down
Of all that sounds so heavenly and free,
In each of secret seeds that I have sewn.
And lowly, am I; stolen, have I;
Rolling down the hills of daffodils,
And grasses greener;
Broken open. Am I
Still a thief to all that's decent?
Do I see the scenery that I was shown?
Comments