WHAT GRACE IS ABOUT
Rodney J. Hugen
The soft, slow beating of sultry summer rains,
my reluctant feet plod beneath monsoon skies,
like brackish water gurgling down red rust drains.
Trudging the rain soaked roads, no one hears my cries,
the sucking sound of depression lures me in.
Angel masqueraders shout their hell bent lies.
Somewhere in the grim and disappearing spin,
a haunting love voice cries out the myth of sun,
though I hardly hear it through my cloud of sin.
Yet it persists, whispers days of halcyon,
of clear days coming, when light will fill the air,
the dark, ramping thunderstorms will all be done.
But now, the rhythmic drumming of dark despair,
thumps my head and heart, would rob me of my hope
were that not held high beyond these days of care.
Sometimes, when mercy would hide beyond the slope,
when welling walls of rainfall would wash me out,
when I can not see beyond this present scope,
Then mystical sunlight erases my doubt,
the mystery of morning flows over my heart,
I get a rich glimpse of what grace is about. |
