Pablo Picasso

Lost often in days I’ve wrought,
trembling and bound in veiled knot.
The morning relieves a dreadful night,
as warming comes in hopeful light.

Should I in weakness stride anew?
Or pity failing in harboring dew.
This lack that wreaks on endless walk,
grasping for more than fruitless talk.

I dislike my downturn from certain way,
to languish as some restless prey.
The peace that comes on dove’s soft wing,
is the peace I seek in everything.

(c) rick stassi