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Bridle and Yoke
Wise men whistle
while all the winds are crowing.
Shaking the trees boughs and thistles
for all the ships men are crying with anguish.
In this un-slackened motion called rowing.
For our hearts beat as one,
towards the promise of love and fill.
Watching as the dim lights grow with a vigor,
as to emulate our growing will.
We land on HARD sand
to see the church's glass.
Tinkle with a tint
of red wine and half-broken loaves.
Who is this false prophet! We bring
thee knowledge of worldly experiences.
For it cannot meld and mend
with the people of the HARD sand.
Fare well lost loves and forgotten pasts,
we men of new cannot begin anew.
With ancient scrolls weighing so heavily
around our bridle and yoke.
