Morning creeps on the grieving hill, 
The sky awash in timidness; 
The lost-heart wanders where it will, 
Right now, to the ancient tombs 

As two birds vie o'er the morning's theme, 
No crickets or frogs to join the fray; 
The lost-heart knows not real from dream, 
Nor the meaning within those rooms -- 

But that life yields to life, and again, to death, 
Seems the only thing obvious, or true: 
And that each lost-heart gets but one good breath 
Ere the night comes again, for good -- 

The sky shows the colors and pattern of fate, 
The ground holds the secret we all desire, 
The lost-heart believes, underneath the weight 
Of a life that is known, but not understood.

Published by

Beleaguered Servant

Owen Servant is an online poet working in a style that's been described as "compulsive". In real life, he is an actuary, because being a poet wasn't unpopular enough.

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