a voice cries out
to infinite darkness
in aching cold
succumbed in 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…