A cynical little piece which follows my personal rhyming/strict-word-order challenge, thrown together hastily in between all the dramas of the house-moving scene:
As crooked wisps of smoke, the same,
Words shimmer like reflected moon seen in a water frame;
Three times God called on, by each name;
Light pleas, as one might pebbles, to counter phantoms, aim …
Lead back to void from whence they came.
© March 2016 Colonialist (WordPress)