What we worship guides our thirst...
Only he God can charge or judge
The ink, that pores-out its blood.
That algae-spore" of each, dreams-drudge,
That made its way—out; from the crud.
"Only he who's skipped, between the stone-
Rocks of the alternant—current
Knows where each" lost breath, lays sewn.
All are archaic, indulgent.
"What we worship guides our thirst...
The mountain pastures, the glassy-glade.
The foot-pounding-city-streets, cloudburst:
Life's passing" promenade.
poem by Mark Heathcote
Added by Poetry Lover
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