14 January 2018

I row through the plaintive
reeds of David’s song, David’s psalms,
looking to him for strength,
and consolation, my oars
the lyre and the flute
to accompany the words
that make up what I live.
How like David I feel,
surrounded by sex-crazed, money-obsessed banshees.
How they scream death at me,
since I do not heel to their wills;
they the cows of Bashan Amos warns about;
heterae, out to devour.
I even have suffered my own King Saul,
who is long dead, now.
Blest with my Jonathan, in Michael,
the love in friendship is life’s reprieve,
where I can row waters more calm.