I Wonder If You Always Tell The Truth

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Subject To Death

The cloud-hooded sea tossed

A distant home-coming vessel.

Indiscriminate of her cargo,

He lashed his fury against her hulls.

Aboard their floating home the prisoners prayed,

Though the servants in secret anguish knew

That life for them had reached its end,

And, in their knowledge, sought no comfort.


The mark between grace and forgiveness

Had long ago been double-crossed.

By whom was not necessary to know,

And if it were, there is not one to tell.

From fear or from a sense of sin

Had each to a man confirmed his fate:

To live and to die in silence strewn

Across the waves of their merciless judge.


Among them men whom time forgot,

Whose children now doubt in their existence.

Whose words mean less even than nothing,

Whose actions combined tally less than their death.

They whom in malevolence drowned

Long before their watery grave.

We see not a man when to death condemned,

We speak not his name when he quiets himself.


Perceived among the foiled and fallen,

One who fell so another might stand.

He sleeps alone, outside of shame,

In readiness for the end he desires.

For always between the rogue and the rascal

Shall be found an upstanding soul,

Who cares not how his will be delivered;

Who is willing to wait no more to return.