What Is It
This star, that star, hallowed with
The kiss that we bestow.
Alone, when given to a single brow.
A child of the ray, forgo eternity
Our own device, to better know.
Removed as speck of dust for clarity.
A fool with broken tools
For all good souls to see.
Used for lining halls and walls
Of human history.
For what is faith but empty bucket.
What is life when some say fluc it.
What are words or thoughts or dreams,
The end of which it seems
Come useless as a single carriage wheel
Scattered quickly, death upon our heel.
For one requited part no faith supposed
Nor scheme to butterflies compare
Enjoined of loving heart to Galaxies
To break the bread of life with living air.
A verse each soul will know quite well
That breaks morose each poets spell,
Grow hearts so hopeful high a love
Upon which souls might fly
Upon the wings of every wounded dove.
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