A poem.

A man once drowned in a fountain of angels.

People sat and watched under a sea
of black and light.
An angel was once caged and chained by a man.
God slept on over a sea
of death and sorrow.
And all the while,
a single lark sang a deep and hopeful tune.
Five branches crossed over an ancient crypt.
May all who seek find empty wells.
For the man with the blood of the Angel,
who soars into the heavens
and lights like the sun,
may he find the hope he seeks.

To a Robert Burns

The best laid plans of mice and men go often awry.
I backward cast my eye on prospects dear.
And forward, though I cannot see, I guess and fear.




Just once I'd like a plan to actually work. I spend way too much of my life making plans and never going through with them or having them fall apart. But then, such great poetry wouldn't be written.