In hope
of skies blue,
vast and undeterred
are drying tears-
collected by unseen smiles

In threats of frigid
but burning ground below
is repentance-

A repentance found both sooner and later
One heavy with pastures of green- but none ever greener

In ancient words
from gilded pages,
bound in leather
hope and need

Are no ripe answers for the raging revolution,
only variant notions
shifting from here to there- and back again

The method of the three,
is mystery
beyond compare-

Black like the dark hours
that hide
the light of the day

Now and then-
all that can be done,
is to follow-
on bloodied foot,
over barren land

The aim of the carpenter
and his dinner guests
is and always was
direction

Purpose from an old- but new compass
in which one chooses to follow, deny
or silently go in search of other lovers-
all of a lesser degree

At the table of offering-
is space for bended knee
and an odd but abstract desire
for service

Not to self-
but to those who surround,
and swim in the very sea
in which the struggle
it is to cross

At the heart of creation
are mountains
and sandy crystalline beaches,
then city roads

All leading to country lanes,
fields, rivers, lakes
and vague dreams

Alas though,
no discernible
or translucent choice prevails-

All that's left
is the true and meaningful will-
of the weary traveler