The echo of your life drifts
Like waves in tall grass.
The seascape of your
Beyond its quieting
Where does the wind come from?
What is that celestial sound ringing in our ears?
Who knows if the first thing created was a board
where our fates could be chalked out,
or an unsharpened pencil placed
in our illiterate hands?
What we do know is that the flame
will always belong to the fire,
as tears will belong to the sea,
and we … we will keep cascading our lives
into the hands that lift the future
from the downtrodden ground.
I wished the sun would fade its light
I wished the grass would pale
And salute a new queen; my childish grace
And leave the blooms asleep.
But praying hands can’t keep secrets
They are to sorcery immune,
So Autumn kept her vivid colors
And birds sang out their tunes,
And I laid my hope in a grave of sunshine,
To wither with a lover’s look.
But be it so, before the bedrock
The stubborn frost withdrew.
Sometimes, a love’s painful birth,
From a weary soul’s victory,
Over a life, whose shadows fling,
To murder a loss that wounds and stings.
Though, they may yield with the taste of tears,
A sorrow tucked
Behind the thistles of layered years.
He has forgone the shrine of youth,
to chisel grace
From the toiling labor
Of mining truth.
For only the wild will dare
To tempt the cruel decay
Of man’s cathedral mind,
And lift upon his beaten back
The sweet legacy of resurrection divine
And bend his worn-out quivering knee
To be knighted by Love’s sacramental