A Black Cloud
Lord, it is dark inside and darker out,
and black thunderous rainstorms thunder by
blessing the tiller, the grower in drought
but Lord, not all that rages is the sky.
Behold, I am drowning but not yet drowned,
an ordinary man and nothing more
on a quest to find hitherto unfound
the heat of passion that begins the thaw.
In the sum of all hurt this I must bear -
that I too have known the seasons of drought,
and washed am I in a cold bath of fear
by life’s flood of tears and love’s well of doubt.
Still the ground I till lays fallow and torn
but for the pricking briar and piercing thorn.
Written: July 1997
Copyright © Keith D Trestrail | Year Posted 2022
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