Tuesday, June 24, 2008

More poetry

I don't know what's gotten into me. Poetry really isn't my style.


There is pain to slavery

yet there is comfort, too

The lash bites, the shackles rub

but you are safe

safe from decision

safe from care and worry

the evening meal is always there

Of what value is courage?

What is the currency of freedom?

What can they buy a slave?

A quick death;

or a long one

starvation, homelessness, care and worry,

Why, then, this restlessness?

From where comes these urgings?

A whisper in my sleeping ear?

A waking vision, a day dream?

Who is this that says “Follow Me”?

A demon, a fantasy, a fever?


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