As things get weirder by the day,
There’s not a tear to shed away;
Those forty winks of sleep I’ve had,
Yet not this has to make me glad;
For writing poems by the score,
Alas! They are no longer chore,
And, with mind far out to sea,
I say, my heart yearns to be free.
It wants to break away the crowd;
Show all that’s hidden under shroud.
It wants to cast away the night-
Reveal itself as tender light,
And prove to other’s questions lost
That this is more than worth the cost.
The cost of all those waking hours,
When I fought each and all their powers,
And all the times I’ve wished to say:
‘Tis not me you have to slay.
Go to those far above the top-
For it’s their rules you want to stop.’
My word they take upon their arm,
And cast across that busy farm;
As less than hope they have to kill.
I know their hearts. I know their minds. I know they will.