The bus wheezes up the endless hill,
shades drawn as though against sunlight,
protecting the quarrelers hissing away.
Names volley through the stale air,
jockeying for the front row, the throne,
where a monarch might fancy to reign.
Outside the rolling waves of golden fields,
the flaring maples' autumn riot unseen.
Clatter of voices drowns the engine's
steady hum, arguing for narrow crowns,
while the countryside stretches its arms,
a silent sermon in sweeping open hands.
To look out could quell the crowd's dispute,
show them life unburdened by themselves.
Yet the shades remain as shields, blinkers,
turning a feast into a grudge match meal.
The Lord, once easy-yoked and lighter
burdened than our self-imposed chains,
saw not merely freedom from a torturous
life but a blessed freedom from the self.
But here, within the curtains of our own
design, we turn slight neglect to fury,
missing the sermon of solid, hallowed ground,
content to grasp our grievances tight.
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Author:
gray0328 (
Offline) - Published: December 11th, 2024 12:28
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 16
- Users favorite of this poem: Mutley Ravishes
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Comments4
Excellent write
We often place constraints upon ourselves that nature or God does not. This poem reaches to the depths of what humans do to themselves. Very nicely said.
Amazing
Preach!
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