adventures in dysthymia

Wednesday, February 12, 2014

Piles, a poem

Piles

When the sky is torn in pieces
and scattered like confetti on sawmill
winds, when dark ocean leaps
to swamp the stars, gather up
your baskets of prayers. Throw them before
your god, saying ‘Count them, O Lord.’
Later, an angel will sweep them into
unruly piles to be thrown away
with all the rest of eternity.

Stephen Brooke ©2014

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