Speakst thou from thy heart?
Aye, and from my soul
In this certainly uncertain world,
Where only pain comes free,
I find myself uncertain
If I am myself but me.
Where winds flow for tide's ebb,
And men sow only for reaping,
I am tired of weeping,
For only uncertain joy.
Wanton seas for spent men's labor,
A field of ashen gray,
Life wandered only for harbor,
Costly tears for homes lead stray.
I cannot say I am certain,
For saying anything true,
I cannot neither speak of longing,
If it were for any but you.
Thusly standing darkly,
A cold shade on black clouds,
I say that I am certain,
This is myself, not me.
This land of sorrow,
Where only pain is free,
I find in moody 'morrow,
A light cast by naught yet true.
With only your truth to judge mine,
In a land where mean sow to reap,
I find I am happy in sorrow,
For the promised day we meet.
Thus resting in graves,
And dancing in ghosts,
I cast thee my eyes,
For only you to keep.
I am weary of darkly 'morrows,
For love was never sure,
I find the world uncertain,
That I am weary of all but sleep.
This, myself uncertain,
That today should die tomorrow,
And this, yet so certain,
That I am yet today.
I cannot speak of longing,
For want and need were sure,
Yet I seek for something,
That is ever yet unsure.
As the winds meet stones,
And fires boil seas,
I find myself now certain,
This is myself, yet me.
A wind lost in breathing,
And stone buried in sand,
I find now no anchor,
Only seas of cast from land.
Drifting thusly lost,
With neither stars nor map,
I find a growing darkness,
A dreamer buried in frost.
I cannot speak of longing,
Lest to be made untrue,
And for me my uncertainty,
I find harbor in you.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A'ight y'all, I'll shut up now. three poems in that many days, I am nigh certain perhaps myself now for sleeping, and being thus a wander, perhaps again this way to meet, yet in myself I'll ponder, if ever the honey so sweet. Certain of nothing, longing for less, I find one name beyond my speaking, one heart yet to bless, so thusly lost I'll ponder, ancient waves yet ridden, till darkly yet she'll wander to find me waiting where I've never bidden. So here to few, yet to many to come, I cast a final posing, for yet to find answers, if one is left forgotten, should the rest be so true.
To what consequence comes the past, to a dying man of age, that time at last so heavily must weigh? In what wells spring light that hope did not first have needs die, and to what rivers must a lost man cry? In life so weak, did the fires burn bright, that there was yet to be darkness for seeing light?
Time so cruel, and light so dark, yet together without other, did either find to rise. So today shall die tomorrow, and in grace I'll be much different, yet should memory be kind, at least there is hope that she may find another yet lighter than me, for to her I owe all, yet the least. Though today she stands to forgive, tomorrow I may be fortunate, yet time moves to change, as neither before to be the same, and should this indeed be my final rest, I take it thus, for only now do I understand, as I gaze unto the void of time, that it was she who I loved. Should time be kind, I would pray my hand to her own, yet knowing uncertainty as I most certainly do, I would pray at least in time she knew. Never before another, had I at last been so certain, that any other beyond her grace, my heart should there find rest, and from her grace, and hers alone, I find the tears at rest, for to her it was always true, so resting now, as never before I had, I know in her at least one thing was certain, where the others lay untrue.
So thanks to all and to each alone, whom may today call me beyond their own, for breaking now is chain and stone, as winds at last my heart is thrown, and what today rests shall tomorrow fly, for through her I lived, and with her I pray to die.
Else beshrew them both.
In this certainly uncertain world,
Where only pain comes free,
I find myself uncertain
If I am myself but me.
Where winds flow for tide's ebb,
And men sow only for reaping,
I am tired of weeping,
For only uncertain joy.
Wanton seas for spent men's labor,
A field of ashen gray,
Life wandered only for harbor,
Costly tears for homes lead stray.
I cannot say I am certain,
For saying anything true,
I cannot neither speak of longing,
If it were for any but you.
Thusly standing darkly,
A cold shade on black clouds,
I say that I am certain,
This is myself, not me.
This land of sorrow,
Where only pain is free,
I find in moody 'morrow,
A light cast by naught yet true.
With only your truth to judge mine,
In a land where mean sow to reap,
I find I am happy in sorrow,
For the promised day we meet.
Thus resting in graves,
And dancing in ghosts,
I cast thee my eyes,
For only you to keep.
I am weary of darkly 'morrows,
For love was never sure,
I find the world uncertain,
That I am weary of all but sleep.
This, myself uncertain,
That today should die tomorrow,
And this, yet so certain,
That I am yet today.
I cannot speak of longing,
For want and need were sure,
Yet I seek for something,
That is ever yet unsure.
As the winds meet stones,
And fires boil seas,
I find myself now certain,
This is myself, yet me.
A wind lost in breathing,
And stone buried in sand,
I find now no anchor,
Only seas of cast from land.
Drifting thusly lost,
With neither stars nor map,
I find a growing darkness,
A dreamer buried in frost.
I cannot speak of longing,
Lest to be made untrue,
And for me my uncertainty,
I find harbor in you.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A'ight y'all, I'll shut up now. three poems in that many days, I am nigh certain perhaps myself now for sleeping, and being thus a wander, perhaps again this way to meet, yet in myself I'll ponder, if ever the honey so sweet. Certain of nothing, longing for less, I find one name beyond my speaking, one heart yet to bless, so thusly lost I'll ponder, ancient waves yet ridden, till darkly yet she'll wander to find me waiting where I've never bidden. So here to few, yet to many to come, I cast a final posing, for yet to find answers, if one is left forgotten, should the rest be so true.
To what consequence comes the past, to a dying man of age, that time at last so heavily must weigh? In what wells spring light that hope did not first have needs die, and to what rivers must a lost man cry? In life so weak, did the fires burn bright, that there was yet to be darkness for seeing light?
Time so cruel, and light so dark, yet together without other, did either find to rise. So today shall die tomorrow, and in grace I'll be much different, yet should memory be kind, at least there is hope that she may find another yet lighter than me, for to her I owe all, yet the least. Though today she stands to forgive, tomorrow I may be fortunate, yet time moves to change, as neither before to be the same, and should this indeed be my final rest, I take it thus, for only now do I understand, as I gaze unto the void of time, that it was she who I loved. Should time be kind, I would pray my hand to her own, yet knowing uncertainty as I most certainly do, I would pray at least in time she knew. Never before another, had I at last been so certain, that any other beyond her grace, my heart should there find rest, and from her grace, and hers alone, I find the tears at rest, for to her it was always true, so resting now, as never before I had, I know in her at least one thing was certain, where the others lay untrue.
So thanks to all and to each alone, whom may today call me beyond their own, for breaking now is chain and stone, as winds at last my heart is thrown, and what today rests shall tomorrow fly, for through her I lived, and with her I pray to die.
Else beshrew them both.
....Amen.
