We are signatures
Across such time
As might be scraps
Scattered by the wind, 
Lost in moldered heap.

Pride, Aspiration,
The private drama
Played upon the gyre.
All is poverty.
The niggardly truth
Pulls from our hands
What gem we hold.

We tell what might be,
And yearn to be heard:
A voice of passion
Forever sounding,
A body reborn
In the Mind of God.

(c) 2-26-13 FXP