Snow is gently floating down
Crystals melting on the ground.
The Christmas lights glow dimly.
The window panes are foggy,
The House is hot inside.
A tired hand wiped the fog away
A tired hand made a tiny way
For a face that was ready to Die.
It peered through the glass and sighed.
A failed attempt to Smile.
An old man sat on the couch.
The skin beneath his eyes was pouched
And the Wrinkles that enfolded his face
Showed that his Body was turning into waste.
Death sat on his brow.
There was a man that died one time.
And there is a mineral, a stone of lime,
Baptized in water it makes a fire
A Holy altar, a pillar, a pyre
On which a Dove can rest.
The son of Man died to give life to others.
The Old man in marriage gave death to sinners.
Mortal children, bringing death to a dead Home
(I will search the graveyard with a fine toothed comb,
But no one died who had not Sin).
We were all born in sin, growing old into cynics,
From Germany's Auschwitz to our abortion clinics.
The more we know anything, the more we know nothing.
Truth is everything or truth is nothing.
The old man talks of the War.
The old Man tells us about the war
While Children run about, slamming the door.
But they are also fighting a battle
And when one of the children comes to tattle
He closes his Eyes and turns away.
He will likely die by the end of May.
Crystals melting on the ground.
The Christmas lights glow dimly.
The window panes are foggy,
The House is hot inside.
A tired hand wiped the fog away
A tired hand made a tiny way
For a face that was ready to Die.
It peered through the glass and sighed.
A failed attempt to Smile.
An old man sat on the couch.
The skin beneath his eyes was pouched
And the Wrinkles that enfolded his face
Showed that his Body was turning into waste.
Death sat on his brow.
There was a man that died one time.
And there is a mineral, a stone of lime,
Baptized in water it makes a fire
A Holy altar, a pillar, a pyre
On which a Dove can rest.
The son of Man died to give life to others.
The Old man in marriage gave death to sinners.
Mortal children, bringing death to a dead Home
(I will search the graveyard with a fine toothed comb,
But no one died who had not Sin).
We were all born in sin, growing old into cynics,
From Germany's Auschwitz to our abortion clinics.
The more we know anything, the more we know nothing.
Truth is everything or truth is nothing.
The old man talks of the War.
The old Man tells us about the war
While Children run about, slamming the door.
But they are also fighting a battle
And when one of the children comes to tattle
He closes his Eyes and turns away.
He will likely die by the end of May.
3 comments:
Well done Ken. I was without internet connectivity all of yesterday. My most humble apologies. I will post one on God and one on sin today.
Alright brother wheres the new post?
Your line about "the more we know anything, the more we know nothing" reminded me of a woody allen quote:
"Nothing worth knowing can be understood by the mind." The more we try to fix ourselves and figure out what is wrong with us through reason, the further we get away from the truth. Great poem! A well deserved 3
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