Subtle hums my thoughts this eve,
by Michael Walkerjohn
waisted pen by fireside flame;
humilities flow from heart to soul,
yet to my hand disclaim;
recapture fleeting images,
in consciousness creativity rename;
innocence lost to self desires,
exposed is one's ill fame.
Thinking closely to my vest,
weary arm cross mantle laid;
clearly voiced compassion's course,
yet truth remains quite staid;
avoids in self a rush to choice,
caution tunes be not swayed;
imprecations, future sore,
one diminishing race will be betrayed.
Universal harmony, that peace lost,
to the annals of our time;
quest in self, true conscious theme,
lest change cede proxime;
humankind's hypnoetic pith,
truth's freedom everyone's regime;
survival guided not by popularity,
but through consensus ultime.
Treasure truthfulness laid bare,
its dried bones we now read;
actuality must become our norm,
ending subterfuge and greed;
beyond this simplistic belief,
each of our failures, we must concede;
transcendence through to truth's nascency,
future's virtue reseeds.
Hearth's heat restores my conscience,
hand swung, pen en garde;
flickering shadows steel my brow,
truth's insistence my bollard;
ignites past specters scourge,
white lies, receive truth's collar;
inspirations writ proclaims,
truth's treasure is, this gifted man of colour.