hillside spills into the
low, lush valley of the forgiven, away from light of city
brightened at night by only stars,
there lies, in forfeit, a pile, high, of ashes -burned fury.
The journey in
is curved, swerves often and
the air is
though shaded patches bring relief when needed.
Past, forbidding, calls continually out;
beckons return to height.
Keep on, fledged with
The way is written. Bid not,
the company of grudge. Unbind soul of all
that hinders, tread with perseverance through
sedge where hidden motive pricks, sharp and beast of moral ire hunts.
the stale taste
what has been.
Nearing descent, hew with prudence the path alongside sidehill's edges
and when just past hedge of fear,
gust of fervor will welcome
Vainglory now behind,
see gathered swarm of watching saints.
assuredly in grace, the wretched ghosts of prior scorn
depart with sighs.
Here, the clamor of what is finished is finally stilled,
The Sunday Whirl
Write at the Merge