Tibault & Toad

a poem

Today I lay beside my sleeping babe
and wondered at her hair,
the strands, so slowly added to,
and growing imperceptibly;
the wispy ends the very same
that crowned her new born head.
But oh! How I bore her
in Eve’s ancient pain,
and sin, the creeping stain
that from a dark speck spreads and spiderwebs,
like ink,
across her paper heart.
How I sense the burden of the Truth
that yet can wash it clean
and form a shield
against the darkness
that the World may bring her yet.
And yes! How that same Truth
has made a way
for booming voice to once again proclaim
about that slumbering form,
with lashes long and skin unworn, that
it is good.

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