HEAR MY PRAYER

HEAR MY PRAYER

Hear my prayer, the soft, low call of my soul.

Hear it in the morning when the birds sing in their nests
And I pine in my room for their sweetness.

Hear it in the noon, when the hot sun ravages and perches demonically.

Hear it in the evening, when the bloodshot moon gazes sleepily.

Holy, holy, holy, guardian of the unseen changes,
Sculptor of the body, origin of the soul.

Mercy, mercy, mercy, landlocked settlers cry.

They slave away and wake to find
The lives they wanted passed them by.

And still you sit in your pearl-shaded sky, pressing buttons, twisting knobs,
Handling lives like spinning tops
And hearing supplications from your gilded throne.

Supplications from flesh and blood soldiers who walk this earth alone.

Hear my prayer in the evening of my life,
When I reach for the bread and the wine
And break my body with decaying age.

Hear my prayer in the evening, when the bloodshot moon fades.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2008
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED