the world is black slate roofed
and dark as the coal stained face
of a miner at dismal day’s desired end
streaked with sweat and old earth’s blood
we exhausted wander toward hope and home
westward into the solitary setting of the sun
where light pours forth like golden grace
like a welcome lamp thrust beneath the covers
spilling warmth and the promise of new days

now we know that crust of sallow sky
is but a sackcloth covered in anguished ashes
hiding the way things really are and should be
it is a mourning cloak waiting to be torn away
revealing the every present liquid platinum moon
a sanguine spirit of strength in scattered stars

tear off the wicked weight of the world
rise up in laughter and foolish certainty
that not everything is as it appears and
love prevails in the dimmest vaults of stone
see past all-obscuring veils to high-hearted heaven
till no more do you wear a foul burdening filth
but clay encrusted robes as a lord of creation
bound for glory and bound to it as well