Summer Wind

                                                    The summer's winds have all but stopped
                                                 the winter weather nears
                                     I sit beside the window and watch the year turn into years

                                               I am not sure where it all leads
                                               some say they know the plan
                                  of an immortal being with eyes aflame who holds me in his hands

                                                 But what if it is all a plot
                                                to make me do their deeds
                                         shall I follow endlessly to fulfill another's needs.

                                                What if all that they believe
                                                   is just a wicked tale
                                   a made up story to ease their pain of a life that's doomed to fail

                                           The autumn's harvest or a winter's death
                                                 a darkness will soon fall
                                 and eyes will close against the sharp reality of a lifetime's empty lull

                                              It is just a jest to press my hands
                                                  and to bend my knees
                                 pretending that I believe in something way beyond all of this and me

                                                  Shall I suffer horribly
                                                 with gnashing of my teeth
                                     shall I burn in some molten hell with others of like beliefs

                                               The bubbling pools of sulphur
                                                projected to cause me fear
                                       leave but a bitter stench that souls can be so steered

                                               For there is not but what I see
                                                there are no unknown truths
                                     from all their carols of life's rebirth I find that I must flee

                                                To the hilltop I shall take me
                                                  to the sea I shall float
                                   away to something else which pulsates echos of times remote

                                                  If there is a great spirit
                                                and should it walk with ease
                                    among the wicked and just, it cares not who tries to please

                                                 It must be so beyond us
                                                 so different from our kind
                                        how could it matter if I am good or if I am blind

                                               The entity that we call in trust
                                                to witness our good deeds
                                     cares not about the little spirits enraptured with little pleas

                                                    I know this is so
                                                  I know it hears me not
                                     for I have asked again and again to have what others got

                                              A gentle pillow to rest my head
                                                   a bowl full of soup
                                      a life to be spared from death when illness was a foot

                                                   And did it hear me
                                            I think not, it made me wait with pause
                                     I take up now my bitterness, a true and righteous cause

                                                 Look to another dream
                                                turn away from this myths
                                 this works not and must be crushed, under heavy, blacken beams.

                                                In my way I have trusted so
                                               I have walked the razor's edge
                                       my life has been for folly and I sit here now in dread

                                               I know that no matter the plea
                                              no matter how sweet the praise
                                     the God to whom I have prayed is just in some silly daze

                                               The winter's night of darkness
                                                kisses my cheek goodnight
                                     the Spring shall never call again from me it must take flight

1997