Sometimes I Tire Along the Path

Sometimes I tire along the path— Colors not bright As they once were; Shapes in my hands Turning to water, Dribbling to indifferent earth— Her reply to everything The same stale belch— The temptation Is to believe That I have been lied to— By some great Oz Behind a celestial curtain, The cloak all traditional Illusionists wear— Pulling levers, Howling through a megaphone— In control, Freewill a plural-delusion— I pray For even a little star to follow, For a Bethlehem And a manger— Search amidst straw For lost gleam of light: “…we see through a glass darkly” A voice surfaces, That of the Dynamic Paul, Parting the veil, Grasping hold of my trembling hand Firmly lifting me—