The Keepers
	(For Quatre)

The most of it, the worst of it:
To scream in silence all the years,
To know the shining moon sees fit
Not to allay these baseless fears,

To feel indiff'rence like a shroud
That settles on the gaping mouth-
So speaks the pounding heart aloud,
While blackness chokes the lungs with doubt.

Oh, surely we cry not in vain!
Oh, surely god still hears our pray'rs!
Our secret stomachs swell in pain
To feel how thin are angel's cares.

Like ants upon the boots of time,
We fall in fields the sickle clears;
Our tiny bodies form the grime
That speeds the turn of hist'ry's gears.

Yet it's no god who trapped us here,
Abandoned to our worldly parts,
But we, who should have held us dear,
Who closed our eyes and locked our hearts.

--Megan Morris, meikundayo@yahoo.com

*For an interesting counterpoint to this piece, read Robert Frost's "The Most of It"