Easter’s hope

20160927_190919On a night like this,

beneath clouds of white concrete

a cradle of motionless stars;

I sit and ponder,

the mystery of a king

trading his life for a starry eyed wonderer.

What would he have said

of this wooden jungle grounded in concrete,

mini-cages holding lives

he wills the gift of freedom,

healing rooms that cure the coffin

but not the bone.

Aye! I ask myself,

what would he have thought,

of boxes that look within but see not the person,

of mirrors that speak the truth

in syllabus that only the deaf comprehend.

Of little value is the spring dew

to the flesh of a spirit languishing from thirst.

On a night as such,

beneath white concrete clouds

I ask myself

of what use are stars

if they lead us nowhere in the dark.

I changed them

Happy new month people!


The night does not control  the sky, the sky controls the night.

My scars do not own me, I own my scars.

Some fade away, some do not

Like the night clouds they mean you no harm, but are

a fright to behold, an aroma to avoid. Like mercaptan full glands 

they come to my defense, resisting the intolerant, defeating the fainthearted

testing your fortitude.

The night does not control the sky, it gives expression to the musing sky

My scars do not own  me, they express lessons of blissful ignorance.

They should have changed me, but I yield them in my favor.

Daily prompt scars.