The only good that could be done
As wild oats to bran become
Has withered away with the guise of lust
And circled around with false mistrust
As rivers weep into the ocean’s heart
So tears can teach the crier’s lark
Of burdens and bruises that time will hold
So buried beneath, sequestering the soul
Like a seed cannot know which roots to trust
The ones that reach up, or those buried in dust
A mind will grope for some certitude
And cloak and mask and declare what’s true
But the body hums a different tune
When souls cry to escape their corporal cocoon
The ticking clock, unwound; a past, undone
As a waxing heart then becomes the sun.
