Drawn and lost
to vagueness where
forsaken dreams
have failed,

while raging saints
of heaven
gather anger in defeat.

The author
of the promise
now recants philosophy,

as broken shards
of shattered
glass
that drift like brittle diamonds
in the bitter winter wind.

This truth imbued
with doubt
is cast
and banished -
to the blackness
and the vastness of the void.

The saints no longer
ponder adoration of the One,

or wait upon prophetic words
that now will never come.

Empty words of wisdom
now become as dust reduced
without a bit of substance to the ears
that will not hear;

ears turned and burned in
deafness dead as stone.

Ravages and savages of poverty
allow the pauper still,
the luxury entrusted to a primitive belief;

absolute reduction of a human
being to filth,
leaves fragments of
forgiveness
in the templates of the soul;

perpetuating
faith in those who suffer most - the
very least among the whole.

The meek that walk the
earth from birth
are keeper's of the keys, an
open reclamation
of the promise still believed.

And in their dedication
they remain the undeceived,
to lead the needs of nations
born with hope and dreams conceived

Tom, I really like this piece, you are a true artist of this medium.

Les

Tom:

I am impressed at how you manage to employ meter in many of your non-rhyming poems. Rhythm is a key component to all good writing, be it poetry or prose.

Joe

Thank you Les and Joe for the kind comments. tom