There is a whisper
breathless and full of repine
counting down the ifs
the and couldas and the shouldas…
the well is full of these regrets
with night as black as coal
and eyes that stare menacingly back
as if in reproach and in contrition.
Were it so and the hands of time
were to cooperate
the hands of man might undo
that which enslaves the mind, body and soul.
We are all slaves.
Shackled, broken, held against our
will, our identities wiped away
how wretched it must be
to remain if freedom loomed
with open door and nail pierced hands.
Though the whispers may continue
we do not have to listen anymore.
For there is a far better song
a lyric sewn with love
webbed with compassion
and grafted like our blood line
to our Father.
Yes, the whispers might continue
but give ear to the song of love
for it beckons and grants a much kinder
destination without chains or remorse.