In The Silence Of Perfection... Poem by Sharon Smith

How pure the soul when with You
What perfect peace is this?
How do I descend once again..
lest the slightest curse be as that of a hot iron..
vicious blows that wound my very soul.
Oh how Your Name is as ointment poured forth!
One curse from their mouth..my very essence is repulsed
Do they know that they strike me with their tongues?
Do they see my soul...bruised and weeping?

...as a tiny pea under a hundred mattresses

Am I now to grow wearisome..
wearisome of these worldly rituals..
that I yieldingly perform each day
An almost torturous chore..
as there is nothing to compare
to That which dwells in Perfection
hidden in the silence of ones soul
Who am I to speak of this lest they think me mad!
A strained smile I hide behind..
and seeing most all I do..mundane

The Time will come..
The hour will arrive..
And though I exist through this we call Time..
in deep..a yearning hears that tick..
with its thunderous uttering..
obtrusively reminding that another second is past
And though I exist through this we call Time..
Stentorian! ! !