A week,
we eke
weak.

The white cloth of old
is, and always was,
tainted slightly
with yellow or brown.
Yet, it was white,
nonetheless,
to them.
So, how do we
set our standards
moving forward?

Such reverend sanctity
is destined to change.

Three years now I have followed
the path in which You've set.
Great milestones have been met
but the anchor's chain still drops.

The year before last,
challenges were external.
At a time, post-vernal,
the flood began, sans-ark.

Simple words assailed in waves,
ignored through red-skied mornings.
Ignominy aborning, through lovely scornings,
a reflective pool showed the two visibles.

My path had grown dark between lamposts
the distances grew with self isolation.
Without light, advances cause irritation--
with light I can see my fright.

To all I've hurt,
and for all it's worth,
my robbery of mirth
requires penance.

This pen knots the future,
a copy to be sent in turn,
for my lost friends to learn
the pain one wields with a pen.

Fear'd desolation
Corrupting, painful despair
Erupts from the crypts of my mind
Yet flowers blossom within;
Sacred rebirth through turmoil

yellow autumn burns
hot
molten
scarring
the feel of searing skin, ******* burning
soldering
molding to burn me whole
corrupting the corrupted