A shadow of sensation lies therein. The hungered truth is stumbling on the stairs. All pleasure which is measured is a sin And faith misplaced is made of wishful dares. We end up in the sea like all shipwrecks, All bounty in our broken holds are drowned, As memories prolific, fond of sex And drink and taste, are never to be found Again. The churning of the sea assures This, one and all. It washes, purifies And casts the remnants on the tides. The cures Belong to God, and who can criticize? But one is left to hold, this death negate‑ And having found him, nothing is too late.
Published on the Ancient Paths Facebook page on November 23, 2019.