When the world slumps
beneath the clouds of expectations
the heart doesn't crave
cream pie gratifications
from sugary messiahs or pastry tales of magic.
Standing in the shadows of our dream tent
where the spirit gropes for answers,
all one longs to feels
is a loving hand to care and encourage,
not a tongue to whisper flatteries
that are vapors in affections,
evaporating before they can become
a landscape in hope.
One moans the deepest pleading voice
from one's darkest crevices,
rising as a simple song of yearning,
with a wish to not be seen as a deliverer or guardian,
or disciple to any whim,
only another soul
in dire need of a comrade
to face the foes of trial
both holding trust's shield
so we both can take
another step without fear.
Gold trophy winner
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