To pray and think, in truth
Are a drawing
The trace that gives form to rhythm
Gives music accompaniment
To humble lives, crossed by pride
The second act of life’s tenor
Is a returnal
Though never in cosmic sway
But in the infirmity of a pencil
Those who believe they hear at a distance
Entranced by what they hear
Will they not be entranced by their own arrogance?
Will they not give all to this destitution of fear?
Is it pretentiousness to believe
Is it pretentiousness to leap across ages
Perhaps with an idea, perhaps not
In the end
Is it not the infirmity of a pencil?
Across a field, hung with the spray
Of nothing but forgotten children’s play
He asks and asks again
Not to die away
Those who trace the fading day