©2020 Steve King
All rights reserved
The Lark is
spinning in his songless height,
the awesome
mountain winds pass where they will.
My dreams are
well enough to hold each night,
though every word
that might have served is stilled.
The high cascades
will hasten in descent,
the killing
torrent, and the eddy’s foam,
and finding their
true level, will be spent,
to gather
once again in ocean home.
The peal of
music that did pitch my heart
returns to
play in memory sometimes;
but even
while faint melodies restart,
I cannot
these days conjugate their rhymes.
Adept false
prophets prosper everywhere,
and every
grace I’d own is second guessed;
now, always,
peace must conjure with despair,
and paradise
contend with wilderness.
Yet every
moment brings a promising,
a new
intention set to satisfy.
The shades of
all regret must take to wing,
so never more
to gather and deny.
And while I
wait to hear my Lark descend,
each thought
anticipates his choired throat.
Though bound
to earth, my hopes ever intend
my soul to
soar once more and greet his notes.
A new poem for https://dversepoets.com/
