One should not call to the living from
the edges of true life, where gray
spectres watch the passing stream
of the blessed elect, in whose
blue veins the lushly sap denied to
themselves runs. For occasionally
they will hear, the elect, and dimly
perceive a stark sceptre hovering
near their shimmering train, and,
intrigued, innocent, are led astray
from their own golden company.
Beyond their smoothly flowing path
sharp thorns grow wide and far.
Stumbling on their crimson robes
they are destined to fall, struck
in their brilliant, perfect flesh. Then
the sap of true life, unseen, trickles
out, and in time, wandering among
thorns, they are made one of us.
08.06.2023
#Poem #Poems #Poetry #Verse
Ei kommentteja:
Lähetä kommentti