a clot of clay

Kevin Michael Bloor

I think about the endless sea
of God’s immense eternity,
as moonbeams on the lonely lakes
lie lonely till Aurora wakes.

I scan the silent, starlit skies,
and dream about my true love’s eyes.
I see my father, trashed by toil,
with sullied spade from sweat and soil.

I think of Life: that “fun-filled game,”
where bastards never get the blame,
and Truth is twisted till it’s torn,
to pieces, like a babe unborn.

I think about the pain Life’s made,
that victims feel, (in full they’re paid!)
And then I contemplate the earth,
that mother who has given birth

to me: this thinking clot of clay:
a cold and callous castaway,
who thinks because he does not dare
to feel compassion’s Christlike care.

  • Author: Blue-eyed Bolla (Pseudonym) (Offline Offline)
  • Published: January 15th, 2022 05:32
  • Category: Reflection
  • Views: 26


  • Buzz Bray

    Powerful, rhymes gracefully, I can identify with a lot of what you say.

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