by Brian G. Daigle
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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by Brian G. Daigle At the threshold I wait for thee,
the one who is not surprised, the one who foresaw its scope and size, the one who placed it before my eyes. At the threshold I look to thee, the one who neither trembles nor fears, the one who sees every drop of tear, the one toward whom my vessel steers. At the threshold I worship thee, the one who is my saving door, the one who is my ever-filled store, the one who portal-cross did bore. At the threshold I pray to thee, the one who opens heaven’s gates, the one who took on human state, the one whose blood does saturate. At the threshold I sing to thee, the one whose song did precede, the one whose tune fills every need, the one who is our eternal creed. Through the threshold I walk toward thee, the one who held the thresh for me. |
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