In a dusty old barn your lost soul stays
buried under a thousand of dull dry hay
in doubt if there is hope to even pray.
When is the last time you solemnly pray?
during those blissful years your life once stayed?
when you harvest sweet fruits, not lifeless hay?
Life wheel’s now turned, you now live with stacked hay,
do you think your weary soul can still pray?
or will you choose a sea of grief soul-stay?
—you won’t stay in the midst of hay, just pray.
©2016 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo credit: Nick Scheerbart
- stanzaic, written in 3 tercets followed by a single line envoy.
- metric, iambic pentameter.
- written with an enfolding end word pattern of
stanza 1: 123
stanza 2: 312
stanza 3: 231