Saturday, March 8, 2014

Quieting the Agnostic (old unpublished poem)

I have the quixotic urge
to steal thunder from the rain;
to take the pain
from our tears. 

To secure and sculpt it;
to create an elation all my own,
so that in a god’s honor
I can set the thing free. 

Because I’ve come to know
that everything sad or lost
is not really sad or lost
when the day comes;
when the truth comes. 

     And all the cold stars
     are a million degrees.

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