This World

The beauty o' this natural world,
it's splendid peaks, and lofty highs,
The songs of birds, circling
Is uncompared to the lies.

Those lies that torture my heart,
and rip at my soul;
That follow me daily,
keeping control.

These words on this paper,
this meaningless tripe;
The pain in my heart,
not quenched as I write.

The love in my soul,
Explodes from within;
But this cast iron heart,
keeps my eyes dim.

If by putting on paper,
these feelings control
God I'd write, and I'd write
reams upon reams, and speak from my soul.

The picture of innocence again could I be?
Able to love, and to give out my heart;
To the one whome I seek,
and have from the start.

(c) Alan Bailward, January, 1997