vendorSong

a rhymed, mirrored double octet
 
i  am but  a   w a y s i d e   vendor  
milking life from odds and ends.  
who  will  feed  my  children,  
turn my stones to bread,  
if   i   f o l d   these  
arms and weep—  
i n   t h i s    
dark,  
park?  
i   k i s s  
ocean-d e e p  
c a l a m i t i e s,  
yet,  i  am  not  dead:  
rising  from  my  dungeon,  
i  a m   w o n t  to  apprehend  
that  H e  is  my  S o l e   Defender—  
when my strife despairs engenders—  
Who’s alone the poor man’s Friend.  
take my dreams and kill them  
paint  my  courage red:  
still, i hold these  
hopes i keep.  
fortis  
or/  
nor  
l e n i s,  
i shall reap  
g r a t u i t i e s  
where  i  have  b l e d.  
f o r   a  vendor’s  r a t i o n  
patterns not the proud man’s trend,  
whose  is   b u t   a  transient  splendour.  
   
© Copyright 2019 December 17  
by Clyve A. Bowen♫