Friday, June 1, 2012

The Wary Eye

Whenever I hear the sound of his step,
All muffled with rags, caught in the deafness
That haunts his ethereal presence, I
Take a moment to observe his keen eye;
For a shroud of it may escape the dress
Of time's bitter wall made firm with God's own
Hand. But when I look he feigns to pass me by,
As though his gaze was stuck to another
Passerby, some poor soul with no reply
For his sins. Yet I am not deaf to his
Clear cut wit that rings out like new struck bells
In a church tower at three o'clock; when day
Is fatigued, and night begins stealing way
Ward rays' of lite so as to grow in might.

                       The Wary Eye, (c) Luke Bennette, May 2012

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