If the Holy Spirit exists, persists
Within this busy world of tangled woes,
That Ghost dwells soundlessly within the mists
Rising at dawn from the shores where no one goes.
The sensitive mind scans the horizon
For signs that all is not metal and meat—
A reason compels the elision
Of tragicomedy’s bitter and sweet.
But that lake is hidden so far away,
And life, both short and long, so distracting,
The mind ignores the lake for one more day,
Mists where spirit slowly keeps retracting.
Minds trudge one, down the well-worn, rutted road,
Holding that nothing that’s such a heavy load.
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