Poetry

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We can't remember what is right,
   we seem to know what is wrong.
We, the blind, think we have sight,
   we, the deaf, sing our song.  

It seems wrong when someone dies.
An insult to health when someone's ill.
Offensive when one steals or lies.
Yet truth is there and is there still.

See it in the dusk of death.
Feel it in disease's heat.
Smell the curse in your breath.
Fear it when these three meet.

Who will save us from the hour?
Who will sing our needful song?
My heart the soil for the flower
   when all I sense I sense as wrong.

© 11-1-2010
 
"It" is my reference to the curse as the result of the fall of Adam. "...through one man sin entered the world, and death through sin, and thus death spread to all men, because all sinned..." - Romans 5:12 (excerpted)

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