The Question

I am, well acquainted, with aloneness...the uniqueness, in a forest...where one never goes...the trans verbal silence, where hush is spirit...where springs, are fed to a poet. I walk beside the world...it is yours. It's windows, barred. Its doors, closed. Locked...tightly, from the inside. What you fear...is, God would visit? Prayer...a sacrament of mumbles...no one hears...stones stacked, toward the day...you would cast...at heaven? Your eyes upon the gods...your thieves in the house? All about you now, are groves...a path to every dream. I never see you, in them. What is this...this judgement, you have brought upon yourselves?


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016,  Deming, New Mexico

Photo Credit: savetheredwoods.org, photo by Dave Baselt