Something reaches us. Within arms length, something waits on our hearts. This, our diluted resolve, has weakened our senses of what breathes so near. Why can’t we wake to it? Why do we move closer? A lighthouse stretches before us yet we sail toward the rocks like droning machines. Something moves nearer with abandonment, stepping mightily over alleyways of waste, our generous arms, tick tock, heavy stones. O! What grips our hearts, weights our hands? Something reaches us. We have questions of it, is it Monstrous? Is it hungry? Is it human? Is it death? Is it God? Is it us? © 2009 mrp/thepoetryman
(The Weaver's Song)