might i from fresh fountain-heads not drink?

a psalm of life for eerie  
   
but what if i choke on my own words?  
what if thoughts too bitter for my lips  
should hover behind the palate and strangle me?  
i'd best let the hush be golden—
an urn for unspoken eloquence.  
   
but what is the hope of strangled birds,  
when their wings the shining sword edge clips?  
are there any dreams at evening, when misery  
my countenance has beholden,  
a forum for nubian eminence?  
   
but what if i rise above these great, dark clouds:  
might not i pull someone from the brink?  
i shall not expire before i inspire my own  
to reach for sweet embryonic  
spring songs that burst forth with healing balm.  
   
but what if my faith leaps far above the crowds:  
might i from fresh fountain-heads not drink?  
the Giver of life shall grow the seeds i’ve sown,  
to give me His sweet salvific  
anointing that makes my life a psalm.  
   
© Copyright 2024 April 02  
by Clyve A. Bowen♫