Poetry

A world divided within me, 
Far separate of sin and thought, 
And sin is the word – not vowed
Far be the hand – that writes! 
Declare! 
So far I am stirred – 
Within rust and toppling scale of limits
to ten, and be it all –
that have wondered this mind, 
“Man is not made of man – out of even”.
In those wild false, 
pleasant voice, that has not uttered –
only cried foul –
strains of the meek, tears of the sweeper, 
whose voice was failing, 
within his soul.
Be the death – crept in his last joy, 
To better – be the span with zeal, 
To be the Human – last I could say, 
Futile in days – 
Death is immortal.