TIM CANTOR

Our ribs are strained by rivals.

Revolutions; to each their farthest end 

And in this deathly fight, always right, is one’s friend 

And a foe, ever wrong, ever ill with no amends 

There finds no center ground in these swayed disputes 

No uniting unlike thoughts and no treaties to relent 

Such trends, thus taught, dictates our fate’s descent 

Where lives the balanced voice between the kings and queens?  

The one I wish to hear, less rage and warring rings? 

That sings, that hums, that whispers all our dreams? 

This white deer, that lurks here, a ghost we all agree 

A sense, so sought, less fear from fear we heed  

A wish we wish to hear, of binding mortal need  

A wish we wish to hear, through normal human creed  

We harbor hope for grace from a soul less prone to flee 

From a voice, lost at sea, that idles our decree 

A voice, lost at sea 

That brings us back as one, in this, our loving plea