"Sometimes there is
an invisible raven
That will fly low
to pierce the shell of trust
When it has been brought
near to ground.
When he strikes,
he breaks the faith of years
That had built quietly
through the seasons
In the rhythm of
tried and tested experience.
With one strike, the shelter is down
And the black yoke of truth turned false
Would poison the garden of memory.
Now the heart's dream turns to requiem,
Offering itself a poultice of tears
To cleanse from loss what cannot be lost.
Through all the raw and awkward days,
Dignitiy will hold the heart to grace
Lest it squander its dream on a ghost.
Often torn ground is ideal for seed
That can root disappointment deep enough
To yield a harvest that cannot wither:
A deeper light to anoint the eyes,
Passion that opens wings in the heart,
A subtle radiance of countenance:
The soul is ready for its true other."