Yes, I remember
the cage you provided
for singing birds.
You spoke of a
shelter from the sky.
At the very the end
of the hardest day.
But the doubt roared within me.
And I wondered, how is
everyone still sleeping
and still listening for love?
Even though I wasn’t dead,
chest heaving and eyes weeping,
you said a mantra, or two
at my grave stone.
As if you were a re-spun sinner,
redeeming your soul
at the very end of the hardest day.
A Wandering Poet 