The Pilgrim's Prayer
If his speech had a name,
It would be Soothing.
Even though I need no healing
His voice wraps me in a surreal embrace,
Though he has never held me so close to his handsome face.
Let me find description for his words:
His diction should be called Moderate
For it does not babble like a giddy stream,
Or roar like a river, or lay like a prosaic pond,
Yet his well of language never runs dry.
I have the task to name his purpose
For capturing me with every sound that leaves his lips;
O, how I long to pray a righteous kiss,
But I must not, for his words are Misleading,
And I must hold firm to my standards.
But soft, he speaks again,
“Oh then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do;
They pray, grant thou, lest faith turn to despair.”
And so I, his saint, forgot all else
As palm to palm was not holy enough a kiss,
So this pilgrim taught me to properly pray.
