Threads Of faith

Splinters of light gleam casting reflections of a long ago past.

Miniscule are the broken shards in retrospect of which time has cast.

Should not to the mountain I turn this saddened and weary eye?

Say now that I dare hearken to the buzz of voices which fall from on high.

This valley is cold; its darkness weary; it chafes sore to the aging bone.

I hear nothing here but the stinging wind as I ride my mount despair home.

I slumber as her hoofs keep time to the madness; the madness which lulls this spirit to eternal sleep.

From trot to gallop; through misting clouds; to the cavernous openings filled with mans foul deceit.

Faintly spirits of light still call from on high; darkness counters; this soul cries.

How come this quickening; to what purpose should it serve my need?

I feel, but I feel no more; I reach for the mountain; I fail within my mind.

The desertion of hope has left me cold; the thread of faith remains unseen.

J. Allen Wilson © 2/2008