The Psalmist
I wrote out a message to one on the road,
who sat by his corner; who sat back and wondered?
A sonnet once treasured and wedded my heart,
That taught me unlearned things, shared with me so I might sing.
Then I wrote out another to a distant land,
Who visited satire and wallowed in mire.
Who visited mountains of man and of beast,
Yet still yearned for more of depravity’s gore.
And I cried out this song to the ones whom I loved,
Who heard no one’s voice; yet continued in choice.
And tabernacled in places once void,
Who carried a claim and wrestled their shame.
So, I sealed this message in a cleft by a rock
that no one could see it, or be it I writ.
And wondered perhaps a passerby might ponder,
The one who dared pen this or who might befriend this.
Then I scratched out this message on tables of wood,
Restoring the backs of a people who lacked.
And encountered a letter once carefully wrote,
that now sings of love songs and the panting of fawns.
From the messenger who wrote to a soul who was loved,
To a player of instruments, and possessors of mint.
Who once hid themselves in forest and plains,
Ridiculed by the pious and ruled by the same.