The white light burns far too bright,
and I am not too clever.
Call off the hounds,
come gather round,
leave your horse at tether.

Tell a story of darkened glory,
Where motives were shadowed and frail.
Reality gleams in oft prismed beams,
and all previous training will fail.

When it seems I've run out of steam,
I'll have barely begun,
Not holy ghosts or sacred hosts,
can quench this burning sun.


Rick D.
Copyright ©2007 Linda Lyng