An Old Man's Prayer, Who Asks Why Not He. Poem by Lynn W. Petty

Her eyes were bluish gray, like mist at break
Of day upon the sea.
She sat before me, tears traced down her face.
In fear, she thought that she had lost love's grace.
"How long, Oh, God, in silence must I be,
Before my tongue will speak the words for me? "

To love and have a love respond in kind,
Her ardent soul's appeal.
This lily full in bloom in desert sands;
Her prayer, be lifted by his gentle hands.
"How long, Oh, God, before I can reveal
The force of pain my silence must conceal? "

Across this vacant land an infidel
Had heard her passioned plea,
Her haunting song on wind through dreary waste.
He rent the petals from this flower chaste.
"How long, Oh, God, will love be blind, not see
It chains my heart, where love should set it free."
Oh, woeful fate, this carnal cur, this dog,
Would violate this saint.
His every fetid kiss a blasphemy!
His groping hands, like paws, oh, infamy!
"How long, Oh, God, before my love can paint
The landscape of my soul without restraint?

He ravished her for vanity, a cruel
Impious, violent crime.
He left her in the torment of despair.
Ah, lily-white, my maiden, lady fair.
"How long, Oh, God, what heights am I to climb?
Are lofty dreams all lost to theft of time? "

A chapel I would build if I were he,
To consecrate our love.
Her countenance, Madonna in stained glass.
Her voice, a choral call to holy mass.
How long, Oh, God? Bear witness from above,
That love is borne on wings of trembling dove.

I'd genuflect before her form and take
Communion from her smile,
Ascending through the gateway of her eyes;
Immersed in truth and all that love implies.
"How long, Oh, God, must I endure denial?
How long will destiny mislead, beguile? "

All Satan's hell becomes cathedral in
The presence of her light.
No chiseled image from cold stone is she.
This goddess is the soul that lives in me.
"How long, Oh, God, will life accuse, indict?
I plead remission, not revenge, requite."

Entranced in prayer, her vision came to me,
Illumined reason spoke.
Prophetic in its speech, its meaning clear.
"Platonic" is the word I have to fear.
"How long, Oh, God? Has Providence fore-spoke?
Is age my crime? Has time become my yoke?

Oh, Majesty of Floral Grace, forgive
My sin that I... that we...
An old man's prayers are script for Grecian stage.
His words are chorus from this tragic age.
"I know, Oh, God, the reason why not me.
How long? Oh God! For all eternity."