How should it be I speak <br />and yet say nothing <br />When sun, and sky and sea <br />can say so much. <br />Why should it be my voice <br />booms in shallowness <br />When mind and heart together <br />sing so readily in tune. <br />Where are my darling buds of May, <br />my sparkling ice of winter <br />I know the path, I see the door, <br />but the key eludes me. <br /> <br />What worth my eyes, when I see nothing <br />save the sparkle of false baubles. <br />when all around precious stones <br />are trodden underfoot. <br />Why does my footfall echo <br />into the emptiness? <br />And not the measured <br />tread of reason. <br />Where are my summer birdsongs <br />Winter’s song of twisting ice <br />I know the path, I see the door <br />But the verse eludes me. <br /> <br />Who am I to speak and sing of love, <br />to plead for peace in all things <br />yet to be at war within myself <br />entrenched inside my soul. <br />Where is the ache of hatred <br />when love holds a greater pain <br />How can I share my journey <br />I do not know it’s end. <br />Where are my snowclad mountains <br />My warming summer rain <br />I know the path, I see the door <br />But all answers elude me.<br /><br />Bill Mitton<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/questionable-horizons/
