A Yearning Stray

So, what if the masters of,
A universe made of love,

Are at war among themselves,
While we wait up on their shelves,

Wondering when they turned away,
From the strings they’ve used to stay,

The order of this fluxing world,
That seems so far from impearled. . .

Must we be so victimly,
Of this war we cannot see?

We feel compelled as yet to act,
Upon a truth, upon a fact.

Truths that seem in short supply.
So, comprehensions pass us by.

The truths are in anomaly.
Disruptions of the homily,

They whispered softly, placed unto,
The current as it formed and grew.

And brought new life as it would fro,
Into the chaos we now know. . .

These are mere men after all.
Naught the gods but for enthrall.

These are flawed, and hurting men,
Who played a game and may again.

May king or queen soon rise above,
Their fray or the end thereof.

Where shall we find such majesty,
When all who rise are casualty?

Perhaps it’s not of them and they.
Perhaps it’s we, the yearning stray.

Who among us will create,
The foundling of our fallen state?

One that’s worthy of the meek.
One we know but won’t yet speak.