The steeplejack!
Hanging from on high,
From strands of twisted grass,
Far below the deep of earth,
High above the sky,
Just a girth around the waste,
Some knots and twisted turns,
Another slip, the bottom, chaste,
More comfort it would yearn,
There on high, some hundred feet,
A cross a prayer held the splice,
It did not hold, your maker meet,
It all depend on dead of eyes,
Eyes of the rope, and of the soul,
That courage would demand,
To be too close, was not your goal,
Most times he’d understand,
In time, as life, the string would break,
It had too many turns that frayed,
The cross that top the steeple stayed,
Was on his chest now laid,
The other splice had no such turn,
It was around his neck,
To break it, it would yearn,
To end a rotten trek,
Twist and turns, and turns and twists,
The rope and life will wear,
We raise the sail in dusky mist,
The spite the wear and tear,
Then, when that sisal strand worn thin,
And finally breaks its bond,
From heaven hanging finds a twin,
That takes him to beyond.
Share
Print
Save
Follow
Georg
Be yee not afraid of what lies beyond. Welcome passing as a path to what lies beyond. Not as something to be endured.
~W~
Be always safe,
Karen