Roaring brook, what’s your name?

Is it “babbling”, or “gushing”

caught between a rock and a hard place

yet never forgetting its place, moving downhill?

In the morning a scrambling knave, forever starts and stops

rambling through the days, as a ne’er do well.

Lost in a quandary, perplexed by a puzzle

Finding something lost, but never returned

And a babe in the night crying, held close onto mother’s breast

Reassured that the monsters of the night persist not

While frigid air may waft through the room

A roaring fire burns shedding light, and warmth

Or the homeless wanderer lost in the midst of plenty

A vagabond among humanity, interlaced with roads and bridges

Searching for what cannot exist, or wants what all want, but cannot have

shoes unlaced,and untied, disheveled, disgraced, black sheep of the family

Yet the golden boy stands erect, upright, like Adonis beaming power

And the touch of King Midas anoints the crowd that mulls about

The ardor of God sits watching over the flock pondering

Well tended are all, not left alone in their travails on earth.

An angel wings, in showing brilliance and light, to light up the night

like a prism showing the jewels of the wealth of men set up for all to see

And the halo never dimmed, but shown out of respect to the those living free

proving that no evil exists unpunished, no lie goes unrevealed

So is it a babbling brook or something more monstrous that rules the day

like a flood or the unstoppable shriek of a tempest’s sea

or rather as a calmness that comes at the eye of the storm,

so that all can rest and smile, for the fateful day has not yet come