Brock Meier
My life is replate with mysteries ready for exploration as novels, and these are some of them:
How beats, a leathern heart,
or thinks, an aspic brain?
How loves, a wooden soul,
or sings, a dead refrain?
How flies, a fallen bird
to sun on broken wing?
How lives, a dying man,
or rules, a landless king?
How breathes, an iron lung,
or stands, a jellied spine?
How spins, a broken top,
or bears, a withered vine?
How fruits the barren womb,
or laughs, the widowed bride?
How runs, the dusty brook,
whose waters long have dried?
How lives, this man of death,
or cares, this heart of clay?
How draw, I, living breath
at start of every day?
Only One calls nothingness
as tho’ it were a thing,
and then He call the never-ness
to always ever-ing!
How beats, a leathern heart,
or thinks, an aspic brain?
How loves, a wooden soul,
or sings, a dead refrain?
How flies, a fallen bird
to sun on broken wing?
How lives, a dying man,
or rules, a landless king?
How breathes, an iron lung,
or stands, a jellied spine?
How spins, a broken top,
or bears, a withered vine?
How fruits the barren womb,
or laughs, the widowed bride?
How runs, the dusty brook,
whose waters long have dried?
How lives, this man of death,
or cares, this heart of clay?
How draw, I, living breath
at start of every day?
Only One calls nothingness
as tho’ it were a thing,
and then He call the never-ness
to always ever-ing!
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