Poetry should be said, never just read
Feel the world dim before Thy shuttered eyes
A green bride, now browning hag I despise
Why is it so like?
These rivers formed of a widow’s tears,
These meadows of orphan childhood years?
I am dust in the wind, nay a speck, to ask,
But in transgression’s sun, I can no longer bask
Thou sayest t’was sin born mine
Charged afore my babe’s first whine,
Crime?
To be of Thy design
Exclaim; I careth not!
T’was no angel I fashioned rot
No deviant to Eve beguile I taught!
Asked not I for this torture alive
Nor for Thy fury did I ev strive!
Life is a casket and Death the grave
Thee the undertaker knave
Who but paints us pretty, adorns our dress
With nifty trinkets blinds and tries block, repress,
Then discards us neath a pastor’s bless
Why is it so like?
There is a hunger, one I did not place there
There is a whimper, one I cannot hamper
Each a vexation without mercy bleeds
Whispers me trembling misdeeds
My soul, my visage it kneads!
I am Thy image, as all, so sayeth the good book
Is this whence came both my saint and my crook?
Oh I see!
T’was not Thee,
The Dark Prince it must be...
Yet, I inquire,
Who conceived he?
This troubler of man, swindeler of Eden land,
Prosecutor fan, was modeled by Thy lone hand
Loosed to tempt the first mother,
Then she the second father
When smite him, to save him,
Thou couldst not bother!
So if I might ask,
Why is it so like?
YOU ARE READING
Shadow Ponders: Poetry For Those Asphodels
Poetry“Have patience with everything that remains unsolved in your heart. ...live in the question.” ― Rainer Maria Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet
