“The path that follows.”
Suspended in the air,
like raindrops in a storm,
measured a man, if he can,
Your gifted hand to keep him warm.
Yearning the taste to seat his tongue,
he left space to sink the pike.
Maybe somehow, he could be allowed
just to forget what it’s like.
But beyond the hall of blinded bats
there is he who seeks salvation.
To burn the thief, the guild and grief,
and live up to expectations.
For he longs to rise above the dirt,
immortal starlight in the rock,
to protect the weak, from eyes that cheat,
himself excluded; not.
But there is no lantern or candle lit
to see the path ahead.
It seems the silent speaker, with words ever bleaker,
lights the path behind instead.
August 14th, 2015