Hopeful Haste

Separate the divining grace
man fluttering faintly
and blissful bashful blundering
from crushing silence of the
majority of fools

who sit and swine in gilt graves of dusty dank
listlessly simply humming away eternity.
Oh, the breath of those who dwell
who linger and are heard.

And hush the old man's chains
lest lost be the profound fusion.
The soulless wave of wistful worship held
and crashing-swiftly swallowing.

Escape ye swells which pullfully prevail
the ill to imagine the tempest
what is heard may masterfully fail
and what sees us bares broken bladeless blood.

Sit babe and be your mother's
torn cries-comfort ageless angels who
yield blood and hold with hopeful haste
a scattered portrait held firmly whole.