Fault Finding

Poem in a friend's wake.

I may not have given of myself completely to my faith.

I did not consider the fault to be my own when questioning my belief.

The Song of days is sung by the archangels.

Once again I seek refuge in my stories

That the mind game stop and delusion remain still,

like the cloud of pouring rains,

that will never sustain siesta.

The harp and lyre are sung.

The clouds above thrust into the rush of a summit.

You were something that spoke to us.

Muttering bits and pieces of what you could not relate,

as the cries pierced through to the 

the dawn of eden.