If you should happen, on your way,
To pass beyond the pavement
To find your freedom, for a time,
From brick and beam enslavement
If you should drift out far enough,
You’ll come to be recaptured
Within a hall of ageless trees,
And find yourself enraptured.
If you should wander there, my child,
Keep careful watch, and listen.
Take heed of every rustling leaf,
Each dew drop as it glistens.
Hold fast, and feel the solid earth
Sink slightly underneath you,
Breathe in the scents of time and space
And let their swell enwreath you.
The magic of this world does not
Reside in concrete plaster
That we construct to wall us in
And hem us from disaster.
It is out there, in rising tides
And plunging roots of mountains,
It flies across the vibrant skies
And falls in crystal fountains.
If you should roam out far enough
That you escape our edges,
If you can wander through our world
And plummet from its ledges,
Then fall away, my daring love,
And seize the scattered magic.
For wasting here within these walls
Is nothing short of tragic.
– s. Clark
The darkness, in its swallow-grip
That holds her underneath the waves
And that would, she should know, consume
But for the reaching hand that saves
To grasp that hand, she must perceive
A light that sears her swollen eyes
The pain so great, that she would wish
To turn and choose her own demise
But oh that hand! That burning light!
That will not let her sink to death
But rather scorch the hateful dark
That steals away her sobbing breath
A soft caress upon her eyes
That tells her she can bear the sight
And, undeserved, a rising hope
To join, and live, and breathe the light!
To be! To live a purpose grand
To break free of the leaded tie
To dance amidst the storm, and laugh
At feeble death. In Him, to fly!
– s. Clark
She gazed upon the fractured sky,
And raised her fist in wrath
To see the crooked cracks that marked
The violent aftermath
Of meeting her. Its fabric torn,
This was its fitting fate.
How could it promise endless heights,
And liberty so great?
How could it boast of boundless reach,
Of aeon twixt the stars,
And, having done, so cast her down
And leave her only scars?
A curse upon the painted vault!
A ceiling, nothing more.
Its searing hues of blacks and blues
Have bruised her to the core.
If, looking up, she had not thought
She heard its thrilling call,
Then she perhaps would not have risked
The rise…and more, the fall.
And now she fears to walk the world
Beneath its fissured face,
Condemned to ever scorn it for
So casting her from grace.
And yet… gazing upon the rift,
Despite all she has spoken,
She cannot help but think that if
It cracks…it can be broken.
– s. Clark