Tuesday, March 10, 2009

Cry

I’ve heard the whispering beyond the tinkling of glass bottles in light hearted hands.
I’ve heard the pleading past the smiles of bubbling champagne
But so hard does the tinkling try to mask the face of the those it works to cover.
The whispering that betrays the whisperer of their need to be in a different land.
Past the tinkling glass is their grief and sorrow to discover.
The voices there just beyond the distractions are calling
They long for true acceptance
“I feel like I”m drowning in this life” their crying.
I have seen it all,
I’ve heard the call.
“I can’t move away” I say
I stay here and really do nothing
I remain so content to drink the mead I’m given.
I love my polished brass, it blocks my eyes from the pain.
My feet are content on the stained wooden floors.
Out in the chasm I hear the fleeting whispers still.

Monday, March 02, 2009

Watchman

Watchman, what of the night?
Do those distant stars yet glow?
Could we see them from this mire?

Watchman, what of the night?
Can comfort be found between sheets of silk?
Leave me, to behold the great constellation.

Watchman, what of the night?
Have the birds flown on their simple wings?
The birds sighed and gave up everything?

Watchman, what of the night?
Does the horizon brighten?
Oh, this waning fixation!

Tell me, with me in this shame and you,
Walking still upright;

Does the Son burst forth in glorioues light?