by Brian G. Daigle "Broken Stones on Crooked Roads"
Broken stones on crooked roads Under feet with calloused toes, Hold up brittle body and bones. Inside sits a heart of gold; Atop, a cathedral of stone. No pot hole swallows. No stumble thwarts. No ache inhibits the journeyman. Neither do storms rattle transcendent faith. Clear skies do smother A memory full of “It will be well,” Engulfing a sun to orient eyes blazed. Lively songs in chorus round Companions ragged but true. “Rage or Sing,” the Muse once offered your plot.
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