by Brandon Copeland
Morning and sunrise.
One rises, a mourning and no surprise.
A lonely heart is the expert lecturer,
a soul restrained
the body, in unison remains.
The lecturer ponders in cries
and cries are unanswered by angels and saints.
But on the mind’s battlefield
where the forces of good and evil
play out a deadlocked and unwinnable war
one’s eyes take sight to worldly duties.
By the constant flow of the
current of undammed tears
the lyrical testaments for unsung combatants:
Eyes do not see the darkness that breathes
smoldering tendrils of discontent:
and the lecturer prays for an end.
For the bittersweet notes that victory brings
in a scythe’s rapid swing.
Alas, in little Armageddon
This humbled offering of wishes is ungranted by the Lord:
"Offer more prayers on the wind" He advises.
You live day by day:
A taciturn vessel full to the lip with 24 hours.
And I see now.