Upon the ink my needle is spun, upon a white virgin crest,
Spun from heart and tattered cuff,
And cast from naked chest.
From the rubble, the hellish struggle, I feel a turning tide,
All the while, comforts the smile,
My burning ember bride.
The tunnel is long and you would pot holes to stray,
And though the light be as needle prick,
It only seems so far away.
Use your meditation, by take of whatever form,
Use it to stand-fast,
Hold strong against the storm.
So with pen and page, and sight no longer forlorn,
I say goodnight to the dark,
Hello the coming morn.
Copyright © 2017 Charlie Hasler.