Thursday, December 11, 2008

As If From An Organ

Be gentle my love, for I am weak
A breath may be my undoing,
A sigh may slay me in my seat.
Torn by vicious forces, I am bruised
And all but lost.  Praised be He Who
does not break the reed,
Praised be He Who seeks the lost.

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I no longer remember what this poem was for.  So, for now, I am putting it up in its incompleteness.