In resignation, we march onwards through
The brambles of uncertain fortunes. Ahead,
The knives are sharpened for the slaughter.
Around us, the terrifying din of mirthful laughter.
But we hold our heads up high, without dread.
The grim truth is that Death prunes life anew.
#421 On My Pocketful of Prayer
In silent hours of early morn I wait
As coming dawn presages Life’s rude trials
I lie awake, regarding Fortune’s bait
These dwindling hours deride my fraught denials
I must away to face Life’s ruthless glare
No sword, no shield, just pocketful of prayer.