Poetry

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Revivalist, I strain to hear

But your melody is hushed and unclear

To senses stolen by that thief despair

And that executioner, lack of hope

I know well their veil, their cloak

Slowly they kill, but as surely as a blade or rope

My Feeble heart is unnourished by constricted veins

Wrinkled sheets bear witness to my constant pains

My unfaithful ears can only hear the refrain

Of Death, as he courts with promises of flowers and a wreath

And in the grave’s narrow embrace, he promises me peace

Yet I know too well that he can only deliver grief

Revivalist, silence his evil beckoning voice

Yours is the power that revives a feeble heart to rejoice

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