Mike Samford | + Follow Poet |
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Burning Sins

It is for sure, not springtime here
Shorter days now how bare His trees.
And looking back draws eyes to tear
For waste and loss of all my greed.

To sail the seas and not return
My ship sinks in the straight of dire.
Its keel has split, its hull to burn, 
A spark to start my driftwood fire.

My greed will feed this driftwood fire.
Heap high this waif to be no loss.
No wisdom from my follies liar
Burn high! Oh! Burn you holocaust.

My ship of dreams I build no more
Fragments be hacked my vain desire
To toss like trash and be ignored
Upon my filthy, driftwood fire.

Self-indulgence fed driftwood fire
Now as to turn from what it seems
Left to me a works of priers
Never to sail my ship of dreams.

I pondered from my window long
Fanning my passion ever higher.
I cursed His name to sing my song, 
A blast to stoke this driftwood fire.

Arrogance torched this driftwood fire.
Let my sins perish with my ships.
To right my wrongs I now aspire.
So let them burn without my kiss.

Resurrecting souls dreams have killed
To pull myself from deep quagmire.
And warm my heart which time has chilled.
Remorse now fuels my driftwood fire.

Self-pride will feed my driftwood fire.
These cords of which I gladly burn
Dreams or follies of mud are mire
No loss to me and no concern.

I've heard the sirens song too long
Uncharted seas with sails which tire.
With all my dreams and fancies gone
Let crackling rings my driftwood fire.

Steam hisses from this driftwood fire.
Stream's me toward sweet isles of peace
Bright flash and gleam of my attire
Shall fall in lour of my decease.

For fortuned Isles my eyes have cryed.
My dreams I leave to whom I sire
I'm cremated before I die
Consumed within this driftwood fire.

Upon my filthy, driftwood fire
When in my grave I take my task
Point for my Lord my vain desires
As chilled ember and cooling ash.

Copyright © Mike Samford | Year Posted 2007

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