I know my feet are prone to slip, unsure, So I play it again: Alleluia. And I know my hands may strike without measure, So

Reading Life through the Greatest of Books
I know my feet are prone to slip, unsure, So I play it again: Alleluia. And I know my hands may strike without measure, So
I worked on this sonnet throughout Holy Week but, as my organist schedule would have it, did not have a chance to revise and publish
Horrors.There is no other wordFor the things I have seen,And sat helplessly by—Useless. My own son, ripped from my armsBy a force I could not
Touch me, someone,That I might know you’re there! Greet me, anyone,So I am not aloneIn this dark, dark, darkness. I am begging,Begging for more than
I cannot tellWhat these gestures mean.Why do you all waveYour hands at me? I can only guess atThe words on your lipsAnd can only makeVain attemptsTo
People just keep goingAround, across, Any way they can.Directionless,They do not notice the manWho motionless,Waits. They step over me, Their limbs stretching usefullyEven as they