The Praying Hands Poem by Alistair Plint

A letter published to
my spirit
would
burn
in a blaze, ignited
with
no
match, spark
or flare

The envelope
would
leave confetti
spewed
in the
lawn
like snow flakes
dropping in a
hail storm

As searing sparks
combust the appetite
for meditation
When fueled addresses
drench the dreams
I held true

Staring; at the oasis
that
promised everlasting
life and
white wings on a halo
I wonder, sometimes
if what artistic humans
write
say
and do

is ever true?


-x-