The hand that writes in words as yet unspoken, Sounds whispering across the sheets like sullen rain. He speaks of all our sins being forgiven, His sickened resignation pushing time. Unburdening himself with gifts that keep on giving, He withers through the wretched stretch of pain. Inflicting it on all that seem they’re living, An ache that stays terrible and sublime. For the courage of the universe to keep being driven, His frantic scribbling hoping for someone to gain, In symbols as yet unknown to all his children, The ability to read from natures rhymes. His twists and turns shape all the worlds weavings. The currents that create the fabric of all with names. His dance does do deaths mad bidding. Shooting stars streaking life behind. The vigour of his conscious labours is in defending, Our devils from their rightful frights of shame. Great spirit, is this devious plan of heaven Unmade by man’s refusal in committing any crimes?
Aun Ali