the rippling of a thought
wavering on every wind of doctrine,
far from placid pleasantries
yet disguised so closely as such,
yet to move, nay, swayed
by the persistent pressing
of belief or ignorance
drawing you ever so swiftly,
an intangible dragging of your soul
to the corner of Iron and Time
where the beating of the water
against your brow hastens
to make you blink and miss
the Light, ever present, yet breaking
the blindness of the gray,
loosening the blur of the rain
of philosophic phrases,
oh, to grant just a glimpse of glory
in the hull of your soul,
ever breaking to be redeemed.
