by Ranald Adams

Artwork, “Cloud 9” by Sloane Adler

No doubt, but doubting as I silent lie
might peel away the fog that wreathes my head,
a victor’s crown whose provenance is dead,
for dead mens’ words in black and white reply
to every whispered question that I try.
Is this the truth for which so many bled,
that to this world alone our lives are wed?
I shout my question to the silent sky.
Yet, though this would, as bedrock, truthful seem,
I find myself afflicted by a doubt:
can there be something more than I believe?
And would that something someone so redeem,
whose life completely has been led without
the hope sublime of some divine reprieve?