The Sentinel
By Dave
A Songbird, On a withered Limb,
Observed, the Canyon’s Scroll,
Its Pages, writ in Dust and Time,
A Testament, of Soul.
It did not Stir, nor beckon Sky,
Its Vigil, stern, and Still,
As if the Silence, held its Breath,
And bent, unto its Will.
The Layers, like a Painter’s Dream,
Lay folded, in the Deep,
A Crimson, Wound, that does not Bleed,
But holds, what Earth shall Keep.
No Choir, save the Wind’s soft Hymn,
No Church, but Ridge and Stone,
Yet something Holy, stirred the Dust,
And left me, not alone.