Not He…Not Me…Nor I

The whispering seas

Give way to the shouting skies

As Mama sings her praises

in the sweet bye and bye.

Crying are children

With old men eyes

And old men craving

To death, defy.

All twisted now in ironic hue

All part of a fallen plan.

Replete with leftover beatitudes

from the false rise of an unwise man.

For blind is he

To the shouting sky

blind is he
to the whispering sea.

For to death he shant defy

Not he, not me, nor I

J. Allen Wilson © 2005

www.Jallenwilson.com