No, she's not me (whose heart is vain)
She's happy where no glades are seen
Whose glades are city-lights and rain
And puddles in the streets unclean
The vagabonds there seem her kin
Who sleep on papers by the mall
In alleys soaked in piss and gin
That shifty crowds don't see at all
She glides ethereal like God
On sullen ground where many’ve died
And seeks about the slum-filled quad
The sacred pools where many've cried
And here within my cozy life
Where heat and food and rest are clean
I think their life just rosy strife
And God forbid the rain as mean
But not so with her honest eyes
That sees by truth those somber sights
Whose tears reflect the raining skies
And all those amber city-lights
-jwm
3 comments:
John,
I too find the love of God and the love of poetry to be inextricably linked. You have some intriguing posts here! I'll be back.
I love it. I am moved. Poetry has a way of making harsh truths beautiful ones. Thank you!
I liked this:
"But not so with her honest eyes
That sees by truth those somber sights
Whose tears reflect the raining skies
And all those amber city-lights"
Beautiful poem.
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