With hurt and a sharp blade of scorn.
Some relish the premise
That all life is blemished,
Cursing the days they were born.
Of sackcloth and ashes, one vest,
To pockmark the soul,
For a mind that cannot find rest.
A frightened seeker knows more.
This journey, an adventure,
With worry and pleasure,
Can fill, with love, to the core.
Mere love, from the source of all light.
One soothing call,
Voice crooning; expelling all
Darkness, from out of the night.