Blind.

‘Blind.’

Motion of mind played night and day,
echoed reason

the calamity of desperados
tricked in on the ill wind

hallowed be thy prayer,
devoured in the instant
divine rights etched linen.

My lord and master chained to the thigh
lapped at innocence,
sin wrought with pleasure

each word hung with every groan
misplaced

tortured be thy prayer,
unheard yet ridiculed
each thought swept in a flood of babble.

Truth taken,
twisted like the apple tree,
forbidden speech and

written words wane

within time

blood on every hand held

each corner turned

blind.
© 2007 Michael J. Earnshaw