Ballad to the Moon
Tim Cantor, 2004
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