A Black Cloud
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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 2024
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