Purpose is given oxygen
by an unseen being above.
Times can be befuddled;
empty basins need a love.

Hollowed out in a groove
the night seeps directly in
the ways of purpose we do
fall short and then we sin.

But what could be wrong
if not for our pleasures?
The bliss of a friend’s words
on us lift light as feathers.

The road it bends I travel,
the night reaches us all.
We are of an energy and
still us angels they call.

Answer we do not for we
look not for angels breath.
Still they follow in shadow
until our sadness has left.

I know of my trenches dug
deep in the earth I’ve hid.
But a friendly reach teaches
it does me to no longer dig.