a voice cries out
to infinite darkness
in aching cold
succumbed to fright
with questions only
the deepest places contain answers

I wonder why those
in their sorrowful
times stop short
of finding all secrets
so near their grasp
and die in futile attempts?

truth, bold and subtle,
answers with certain
clarity to the keen ear
a sound so pure –
and the cries of the voice
are heard

in the dawn’s sweet pastel
a forlorn mourning dove
promises to tell what
she belabors to hear –
her voice resonating
through the morning
rapt with sorrowful sadness

a man spent before
the apex of a burning sun
wonders why his burden
urges emotion’s torrid race
permeating angst and driving
his mentally tattered
head to his hands
staining and moistening with
the tears of long toiling

soon evening comes with
respite as a morose melody fails
and surrenders now to a voice
from deeper places where
quietness is a sanctuary and
peace is warm arms
holding
all that was thought to be fleeting

the mystery flows from
guardian eyes and reassurance
holds with a true hope
as the universe shrinks
to its Creator
now gently wiping tears
from weathered cheeks

some find their way
to such a place
where God and man
come eye-to-eye
and knees become weak
as all things within
are now replaced
with the mystery
of all times

there are those who stop
short of finding such secrets,
I wonder, why?

(c) 2015 rick stassi