The Other Net

Silent is the grave, but loud are the depths
Wherein one dives; it is full of bereft.
Soft is the thrum that wakens the body,
A shaft of light that colors the eyes, sea
Of water that ripples too and fro, tree
Of life that beckons; and we who know, we
Who walk towards it without a thought for
Those who wade behind, we who walk the shore,
We who pay no mind to those that struggle
Within the stormy depths of the ocean,
Who may reach out with but a hand, do shun
Our brothers and sisters without a thought,
Are undone by our illusions, are caught
By the net of deceit. For apart from
The rest we shall be caught by another,
Whose hand has caressed us with rose made rum,
And laughter; one that bears the light under
A mask of fools gold... 

               The other Net, (c) Luke Bennette, July 2012