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( 11 visitor comments )

 

Poetry

 

At Last We Speak

12 May 1985

At last we speak,
For once no God between us.
In you I see a hope
Of ages ringing down



Their messages of joy
Into the modern heart
- Grown cold with pity
For its own demise.



For you my much
Beloved son and brother
I have a plan wherein
You touch the stone



Myself and other
Of the archetypes,
Or gods, do touch
When Mankind



Deals its fickle fates
Of disappointment,
Laughter and neglect.
Lucky are those who,



Like Jesus and the
Gurus tell you,
Are never nurtured
By this pleasant world.



Their abode, if
Suicide's avoided,
Is in the panoply
With us. Another life



Which, as they didn't
Mention, holds as many
Gods as feelings,
And as many feelings



As there are drops
Of rain.
Practice makes it perfect
So don't hurry:


Perfection is the practice
Of the wise.


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