His soul barrels filled with feelings crude,
In spite of great demand, are not for trade.
Nor war, nor peace, nor genial-fellow feud,
Will prompt my inner man to dissuade.
Sun of his mind in seek of its zenith,
All prior-off’ed had prints of second hands.
All prior-off’ed resembled acrolith
Of missing stones, rotten wood, and else.
His heart is shut, by deeds of good and not.
His light of feel is innocently dimmed
His conscience - Christendom, nor Camelot
Won’t offer wharf t’repentance unredeemed.
My heart - his heart, my soul – soul his,
Why do I keep him unbeknownst, why?
One closer step… Revealed? Absolved? Redeemed?
And noble men... are joined in their cry...
Inner man unbeknownst
© Copyright: Fern, 2004
Свидетельство о публикации №104021300289
Свидетельство о публикации №104021300289
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