poetry, sonnet


The heart of the hart pines for river’s flow.
My heart knows not how to appease its thirst.
Forest glen is home enough for dappled doe.
My high towers re-call shrill Babel’s verse.
Still, I set my brick atop its brothers.
Still, I call my others to make amends.
Still, I forget to forgive my neighbors.
Still, I forge high towers as if they’re ends.
I’m deaf to the Dumb Ox’s lofty verse,
deaf to whatever mighty David writ.
Their tongues give birth to leaden curse or worse.
There’s no time to re-make all that’s unfit —
Time’s a thief who takes and never gives.
My sole hope is the One who ever lives.

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