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Christian Poetry

a hard ground to till

all my life's a waking-dream
and my thinking slips and slides
as my words range far and wide
across the woulds and coulds and mights
to here,
where angels loathe to go
to there,
where souls are dying slow

and in and over, through and under
convoluted navigations
puzzled full a universe
ragged, tiny, rent asunder

lost in my own home
and here,
confounded by my confutations
with my self-made selfish soul
and there,
to conversations want and mutter
with friends known not through all the years

to live with death a-circling round
a-circling round
a-circling round
the table with the fatted calf
the aimless words, the sickly laugh
the kids now grown and wanting more
a house with grass grown through the floor
an endless road to paint and pave
a flowered, beveled, groomèd grave

all life is little else but longing
a prayer, a dream, a soul unwinding
while doubt is rising, death is reaching
across amnesic muted lands

and living casualties of life
of death's own dis-entropic plans
scour the looted beauties of earth
desperate for morsels of meaning

by Ronald L Conte Jr

© Copyright 1995 by Ronald L Conte Jr

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