With rhymes of lesser distinction and
    themes lit

By dubious intentions, I was born
    blood-wet and red

To the tears of a broken pen and the smile
    of an abused angel.

Dressed up in sonnets, happily nude in
    open verse,

I fluttered iridescent pages of faith, hope,
    and charity

Through tornado screams of one world’s
    challenged soul.

For I was a poem that knew no better,
    wandering then, wandering now.

Upon the lips of babes asleep I saw light
    embracing light

And so allowed my syllables to rest there
    as a prayer

They might sing in their dreams, or let drool
    across their cheeks.

Wandering then, wandering now,
    I was a poem that knew no better.

Within the bosoms of mothers and wives and
    husbands of soldiers,

I saw the earth crack like madness in a stone
    god’s drunken rage,

And for them, with crystal lines built
    my trembling bridge.

For I, a poem lost in this strange world,
    never knew any better.

Humbly I presented my pages as silk-laced
    tissue at a banquet––

for warlords and terrorists, and I begged my
    belligerent brothers,

“Get thee thine shit together please, as truly
     it makes life most foul.”

Due to the nature of my being,
    I knew not better.

Where the eyes of lovers prayed, I was prone
    to sparkling joy.

Where the garden of grace blossomed,
    star-scented moonlight made me drunk.

Where the oceans of heaven sighed peace,
    I flowed into a midnight wave of echoes.

For I was a poem that knew no better,
    wandering then, wandering now.

Aberjhani
© 1/10/2006