Fear is like weighted feathers-
It festers in the soul
And strives to bring the words
That have no end at all
Although heartfelt sighs-in the Highest-are heard
Amid the warnings of a storm
Of fear-mongers' attempts to dash the Bird,
The frozen dove of peace can not be warm.
Fear is grown in every land-
Tentacles spread to oceans and the Sea-
Unceasing, without extremity,
When Hope is silenced in me.
|
Author Notes
An attempt at a different version of Emily Dickinson's HOPE:
"Hope" is the thing with feathers--
That perches in the soul--
And sings the tune without the words-
And never stops-at all-
And sweetest-in the Gale-is heard-
And sore must be the storm-
That could abash the little Bird-
That kept so many warm.
I've heard it in the chillest land--
And on the strangest Sea-
Yet, never- in Extremity,
It asked a crumb- of me.
|
|
