pilgrimage (to the poets)

a handful of sad songs
bulging in my pocket
could make a man sing
of poetry and the rhythm
choking him and if he swallows it
all will just be happy

a bandful of small hearts
have no buisness outside
theire wallets and in drinking
christs goblet as if they were free???
could any imposter more sterile be
then faith when hes lost it

a narrow forest path
to get all lost in a glow
a humble man who seethes
like me and takes delight
in pure fantasy who finds
his comfort in Christs ecstacy

a thief who accuses thee
you yourself on easters eve
away from the pleasant
falling leaves, make no sound
where i was seized and sent
to death by natures silence

a troubador will win this war
and death in a hamlet like milton
will be, avoiding misery
you in heaven lay here your cloak
my coins are jingiling
in hopes god will soon forgive me

in all thats pleasant
every page i read
of chaucer and ovid
will lay its seed
giving birth to
a new summit

thus pleasing me
a poet who in
loves revelry
has accepted our final plea
knows hes not above it
but takes his height with his fall

in vision lost
he never ceases to
see
at all