MANSION IN THE SLUM, by Felicity Rogers

[LorrB]

MANSION IN THE SLUM (For the heart)

Withered streets are running bare
as tradesmen stand and shake the glare
of calling birds and songs,
that fill the drifting, vibrant waves.
A builder's dream is high above the staves
when music burns, a waiting breath is lost.
What notes depend on time, not cost?

Evening gloom beholds a wistful grin
that mocks the builder's choice to win,
or tread the stolen path from grace to sin.
My mansion stands, a heart of gold,
its wending light revealing days of old.
"Come waiting dove, before the shadows nest
and take the frail rose, with homing wings to rest".

An empty space is here and now
among the ruined walls, I question how
to shape the rugged stone and make the angels bow.
A wounded square once made of sand,
is solid, straight and sound
on rocks that rise from holy ground.
What springs the builder's seed, in exile bound?

My mansion yearns, its wealth departs
to heal the wasted time and bitter hearts,
that sing beneath the earth
and weave as threads of joy and mirth.
Such hope perplexed, is polished stone,
completed journey guiding westward home,
the hands that still....an empty slum.