Journey

Journey of soul, where is your fault?

For then could I say at the till:

rarely before I felt the halt,

but not for myself to be still.

Will I arise from my bed?

That thunder thickly roiled,

becomes hard weathered instead

of storm fronts where I was bold.

Do you call it a lesson?

You’ve mangled my pride and gall,

yet stopped my heart’s procession

of sanity’s bleeding fall.

What price for comfort is dared?

Which blushing picture brush I

in freedoms, flaunted and bared

when recalling choice’s highs?

When is wilderness a forest?

I have mired both long and deep,

but longer still in gambles rest,

for faith is worthwhile ere sleep.