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November 28-30, 2018


you say you dont know if

faith could be found to be

any more than wishful thought

but search

not quite hoping


to find a place

where your gratitude

(enjoying your gift of life

yet unknowing its source)

might land

yet stop, embarrassed,

ere your joy bear its seed

and stoop, condescending,

to proclaim faith as futile

(if honest)

for being built on myth

(that most might be

does not prove all are)


but what is life if not myth

(of sorts

to another eye)

it has no fact but our thought

our every recollection

no more than hearsay

to an ungentle soul


A poem by Peter Rhebergen

Copyright 2021

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