Easter morning I feel a breeze

A chill to cure this common disease

From sunrise death and ill-at-ease

To torn martyrs

And blowing leaves

A stillness flows within these trees

Easter risen by its appease

Vaunted near a hill at hand

we climbed mountains

or moved them at our command

To be bigger than we ever planned

From walk-away to scorching sands

beaches foreign in Promised Lands

He availed prayers into our plans

When will night become morn?

able blind ones always torn

blink an eye and miss the scorn

we are born

Then we’re gone

Then we’re gone

Then we’re gone

until the rise

At the threshold on red-line rev

tore rivets instead of what he said

Near the valley where winds strike

at mountains and canyons we dread

the climb left nothing but choices

Vaunted instead from silvering light

carried from the dark to the bright

From sage moments comes calling

Helpless and cold on some strange night

hollering whispers to turning shouts

Called out an echo

in the morning breeze

 we feel Easter as a mortal disease

Rising from a sunrise the ill-at-ease

created torn martyrs . . .

and this


About memoirpoet

I've been faking it as a writer for more than 30 years. Keep that low.
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