Far, over planes we cannot see
Until she meets her destiny.
Stealing your hand
That dared defile the ancient shrine
What tide and times by chance befalls
The nexus in amalgam of a twisted fate
Touched by the hand of God
He left behind his mark, It Said,
“Kick this poor sod,”
Blistered by your radiant smiles
Eyes flutter, hearts pound, hands that are like butterflies
On rich and poor alike the sun will shine
Wealth not measured by weight or rod.
Copyright ©Christopher J. Hudson (August 1998)