I Was no Stranger Till I Was Born

I was no stranger till I was born,
I was no illness till I took form—
I was wings of hope to the lightless eyes
Where inside, the thunderclap cries.

On a moon where the sun has been setting,
On a lake where the stars have been sweating,
I came “home” to weep, for home only could be
Some strange setting I could never see.

I have no riches, save for you
And I fear we must say adieu.
I die; and dying shall be free
Leaving a redolence of storms
Filled with shadows just like me.

I am the illness, never the life—
I'm the pity, the flowers and the strife.
And dying, death I shall become.
Is it me that love is running from?

And I wish I had been born a different sin,
Sought without a prayer the prayer within.
Prisms of a twilight in my hand—
I looked into the light, and it was only sand.

And I wish I had been born a different sin
Before a sin I ever should have been;
The sky here is colder and growing pale,
My sedated heart will find the clouds and sail.

© 2018 Marten Hoyle