A heart once beating now an empty vessel
Of the love I had which turned into a thistle
Unable to be moved by the highest praise
Nor understood by the largest enclave
The storm that brews without a single sound
Rain that shackles my feet away from the ground
In this reality where colour is a past memory
And the cry for gold is a deadening heresy
In a world where the victory is in the ashes
Of a burnt forest of stolen dreams and sentences
I could wish for the trees to come and bear fruit
But alas I too must wait for life to bring its own proof
That God is there, here, holding me soulful
