Letters for Luther

Here the fruit tree flexes its brittle limbs

Poised in its ripeness for luscious works

Too long are regulations born of whims

Still magistracy has its quirks

 

Four walls closing in; this heat of hopelessness

Gruesome visions grind my gut

To stop; and heaven in its yolklessness

Lets not me in, the way is shut.

 

My anger hangs in hate, my cry of anguish

Unanswered, echoes ‘gainst the floor

And no confession flooding can extinguish

Taunting flames of evermore.

 

Pallid, stoppered, pawn of Father’s hate

The wretch is grieving in the grime

Pious, penitent, too late,

Consigned to suckle burning wine

 

Till through the cracked and flaking pages

The light of heaven shines at last

The foully spoiled words of ages

Amended, now the storm is past.

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