We Will Not See Them Rise
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Over the river runs a hasty fright;
All our worry what became, becomes.
Instruments of time, un-tuning every night
Brooding with precision to a memory that numbs.
Golley-wogging on surfaces
Of mirrored ponds.
With an everlasting legacy,
No magic in our wands.
We do not have such words within
As those that shall remove us.
Ours bequeathed, by those
No longer here.
One voice shall rise above us all
To be a hero by default.
Each man is such when by himself;
To clothe himself within his doubtless lie,
Each time he tries to be more than he is.
Dismissed by parables,
Paroled by unknown mercies,
We seek our self
Inside the God of our perfection.
We are not He.
Were that we could move all words to be a shelter,
Giving what we do not have to all our children.
Intrepid creatures hollowing out the night.
Carving a totem of words.
Our falsehood of becoming laying flat;
Stating that
Our whisperings are vital.
We drown all words
In the air of our silence
We will not see them rise
Above the level of our sorrows.
Copyright © Vernon Witmer | Year Posted 2021
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