Saturday, 14 December 2013

From quiet beginnings

Underneath his feet
An earth which has
Bore down
Upon his unbridled soul
And carved out it’s name
Into the hollows
Of night
Till he was
Brought to his knees
By a ghost of the present
A scrabble in the dirt
Until he feels the grains
Of passing time etched
In his faltering hands
The place marked by
Nothing more than
Salt and water
Before that too fades away
And his feet are
Like they are waiting
To be washed
By a greater being
Where then in the eyes of the world
Will he truly be equal
Not barefoot
Or humble.

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