Unworthy

Swords unsheathed, strike upon the flesh of a February dream.

Breast split asunder; hearts thrice stilled to no longer bleed.

Come now the shadows which speak from behind curtains shaded black.

Come now the watchman to ferry the weary soul to hell and back.

No need to muster hope this day for she fled on the wings of grace.

No need to weep; no need to beg the morrow which steals today.

For wide is the passage whereunto thy soul has aimlessly roamed.

Yet narrow the course which lends clear passage safely home.

Unworthy am I this staggered old fool; unworthy to even behold His face.

Albeit synonymous and nevertheless, dark swords unsheathed strike me down in utter disgrace.

Oh how unworthy am I this day.

J. Allen Wilson © 2/2008