The autumn sky attunes itself to hearts,
a sour grey murky wash where lost eyes tire.
with insubstantial dust it affects so,
that vision blurs and minds retreat to when
those aged weary organs last supped hope;
and still they seek to quaff before it fades.
Mere dregs they hunger as the last joy fades
to quench beyond their volume broken hearts
and rehydrate that desiccated hope,
rejuvenate the goals before lives tire,
that minds may ponder not upon the “When?”
but concentrate on “What next?” and “How so?”
To take uncertain step, and take it so
as not to fear the fall if stair it fades,
would stir adrenalin so’s not to tire
the fragile confidence of tender hearts,
that they might respond quickly, those doves, when
presented opportunity to hope.
This then the grace of God, the wisp that’s hope,
which we in arrogance might dismiss so
upon our slightest whim and if and when:
an employee who on our command fades.
this grace exists beyond the grasp, the hearts:
phenomenon which will not doze nor tire.
See now how eyes do genuinely tire
as surcease emanates from new-found hope,
providing respite for those weary hearts:
hammock of restful sleep delivered so
the love embattled souls may rally when
their combined lumen some dark agent fades.
Thus through harsh winter flare as daylight fades
with fuel of ‘the multiverse’ entire,
the essence of which Lazarus lit when
his sisters had begged balm of Only Hope.
Such embers must be stoked to fierce blaze so
The Darkness may not touch creations’ hearts.
Faith should not tire when allocated hope.
Our God heeds not the ‘when’ of our say-so,
but stokes each heart with love that never fades.
Copyright © Perry McDaid | Year Posted 2014