No angels come
	With softly trilling voices,
	Unriddling
	The twisted maze about us.
	No seraph
	Whispers answers
	Within our hearts
	To match the tick
	Of Time misunderstood.
	We are wood--
	Or would as well be,
	So little do we see.
	There's more to Life
	Forgot, than e'er we see.
	Why must that be?

3/8/79

© Fred O'Bryant. All rights reserved.

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