The Thirst
by John Trent
Suffocating
Heat grips this faithless arid land
Windless figments dance and rise
Always, ever out of reach,
The shimmering mirage gives hope
With each step,
My thirst grows stronger
Yet, I walk.
Walk this ever changing path of sand
The dunes shift and fall on currents of a powerful wind
Eternally,
Searching,
Step by step……..
Knowing, I must find the spring of life
Every step,
I struggle,
Struggling more than the last!
Like undulating giants on the ancient sea floor
My obstacles gather and grow
………...And the eternal vastness
So very dry, this thirst consumes!
Should I take respite?
Should I succumb to the very essence of death?
No………
I must not falter
For I must find His spring,
As the tracks of my past slowly fade
On this quest for everlasting life
Dark Deeds
By John Trent
Ol’ Balaam has roamed in search of lost men
For millennia, his essence hides in plain sight
So listen and listen well, as he casts his evil
And devours our hearts both day and night
Humanity has worshiped and rose to his purpose
This fiendish devil of avarice and greed
We eternally grasp for what we cannot have
And acquire through the darkest of deeds
With rapacious desire, this sin of excess
Souls covered by self-indulgent scars
Each expectation, from a life of wanting
True happiness can never be ours
So on this eve, before you dream
Please kneel and whisper your prayer
And listen closely to the Almighty’s words
For we need nothing, whilst living in His care
Ghosts
by John Trent
Emotional thunder,
Crashing through my core!
A ripple of misery moves through these lost years
Ignored and buried, an unending cycle of pain
The ghosts of my past,
Wrap their fingers around my present
Silently,
They whisper from this heart of darkness
My anger boils,
It anxiously burns!
Unable to comprehend, what my heart learned from my yesterdays
Yet my overwhelming grief,
Ever slowly,
Resurrects the healing
Just One
by John Trent
She sits on the sidewalk,
Her head on dirty grey bricks
With a weathered face,
For her untimely years
Unkempt hair,
Clothes tattered,
Soiled……..
No beds at the mission,
So she sleeps in the cold
Our thoughts pass her by
We ignore her crusted tears,
We ignore her lost spirit,
And wandering soul
We ignore the small bowl
With only a few coins
We judge her as less human,
Because she begs for more
Willingly, our eyes shift away,
From her desperate face
She pleads for help,
Trying to catch our distant stare
But we keep walking and ignore her pain
Our hearts are calloused,
And our souls have grown cold
Except one,
A young boy approaches,
So pure of heart
With his day’s lunch
In his tiny hands
Crouching,
He makes his meager offering
And her spirit renewed,
By a handful of hope
