If goodness lead him not, yet weariness
May toss him to My breast.

-George Herbert

Thursday, June 23, 2011


Her ample solitude 
no trespasser profane;
no artifice infringe
the glory of Her sun.

An ocean of gray doves
burns in Her opened eyes,
whose wisdom's word compels
the science of the breeze.

Wherefore, this slender hand
shall track the thieving night,
fetter absconding death,
pillage the hunter's spoils;

Commissioned to retrieve
lost pledge of timeworn love.

-by Wayward Disciple

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