Poetry

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A possible something in a world of endless nothing
Can it be?
Will it be?
Am I awoken by thunder to bathe in the shower of only rain?
Should I be leery of the clouds that part to sun?
Shall I grow weary of time
Sluggish and rude in its intolerant motion?
Will I see all that was once unseen?
Forgotten by the stubbornness of my own eyes in wilted abandonment
Yet suddenly,
As surely as lost was mine to own
And never could was its sole artifact
Life sprouts to blossomed blessing
And I take hold to a new day
A new life
His way

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