What would become of a tale one tells
With ancient word and rhyme,
Not really of the here and now
But of its own space and time?
A fair prediction, it shall be said
Is that the song falls on deaf ears,
And the world, now quick, no longer home
For one who stops and hears.
A flower plucked has its fate sealed
By those who look upon it
But can a large work tell it better
Than a simple sonnet?
My answer’s “no”, but I’m just one
Whose fate is also sealed
For this is where my heart is home
And by nature not revealed.
But alas good hope, another twist
Has brought The Mariner to me
And I find my own kind of light
In a tale about the sea.
The albatross and life-in-death
And every vision from each verse,
In passion spoken with rhyme not broken
Of wedding guest and curse.
This book survived alone to find me
A century for this one hour of need,
My faith restored, my purpose clear
A question asked has an answer indeed.