Wishes
I'm a poet bereft of poetry
A lover without a beloved
For what do I seek tirelessly
I have no center nor a home
But there is grace of that I'm sure
This hope, this believing
come to me, O Soul.
In July
And in July it rains As if the cosmic wash day had arrived So I spread this poem on my roof To cleanse it pure as white And it rains on July As if to wash away every bit of dust And here drenched on my rooftop I witness salvation And on July it rains From my eyes it pours out My beloved soaked in pain Oh why oh why does it rain. Timepast McShifan Xis · Friday, October 2, 2015
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