The Seventh Seal

The thrill of the chase makes its pace,
Worked out in my mind are the maps of Time
Working, in ways
But behind is blind.
Illusions of patience take me the way
Through life, as is illumined itself,
It cares to put to plinth a smooth feel
As sight dominates the domain
In a Golden Census

Hang a shrill to its waste,
This mind of Grace
For falling forwards
Is the memory of its trace,
Here, this mind of Grace
In the still thought of solitude
Raising its face,
Webbed up to its bondage
And incarcerated to waste,
Webbed up to its wanton,
The find is still the same,
With Endeavour
And Grace.

by Rus Sneddon

Other poems of SNEDDON (2)

Comments (0)

There is no comment submitted by members.