i shall abide

under that Hand that leads me  
   
“Honour belongs to those who never forsake the truth even when things  
seem dark and grim, who try over and over again, who are never discouraged  
by insults, humiliation and even defeat.”—Nelson Mandela  
   
under the clock,  
over harsh circumstances;  
spawned on the Rock,  
interred by hard-knock dances;  
i stand alone,  
sifted by choice and chances;  
by coarse winds blown,  
whose lips know no romances.  
   
here sprouts my path;  
there wanes my mother’s tombstone,  
whose epitaph  
does not my journey postpone.  
deep in the night,  
the North Star is the capstone  
whose fervent light  
protects me from the jawbone  
   
of beast and ass  
that trouble me with malice;  
of crude and crass  
that guzzle from my chalice  
—insatiate—  
who desecrate love’s palace;  
consumed by hate,  
halt with vext paralysis.  
   
i shall abide  
under that Hand that leads me,  
taking in stride  
that biting hook that bleeds me:  
comes soon the day  
when all that now impedes me  
shall pass away,  
as naught more supersedes me.  
   
© Copyright 2024 September 08  
by Clyve A. Bowen♫