To The Reader

I praise the skies, I praise the rain,          And scarce I would have lain

My thoughts to rest, these thoughts so faint,          Like prayers of a saint…

The words will spread a languid taint.          But truly, I would fain

Have let them die, those silent stains—          Like Abel killed by Cain.


My words doth sing, perhaps they soothe,          Or cause heartbeats to move

To new-spread skies. Maybe a truth          You’ll find, or say “In sooth

This is a waste of time.” The roof          Is capped on growing youth,

And Time will steal each dropping tooth          Like muscle from the wolves.


So venture on, you eyes—these rhymes          I pray will stand through Time;

I ride these words o’er endless lines          And lash out at my mind.

Perhaps thou’lt find the scent of pines,          A sweetly shining dime,

Or live the dream of crimson wines          That flow through sturdy vines…


And here is shown my work of years.          A final, slipshod fear

Has bid me show these words. No tears!—          These, all, I do hold dear.


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