Food for the soul: A poem 

Posted bymontecyrilPosted inUncategorized

Riches are no wealth 

Furs are not felt 

Candles always melt 

to time’s relentless stealth 

The pharisee is the one who spoke 

Thus, his pot of honour he broke 

The publican only stoked 

his silent grace in the coke 

A poor man is the last to fall 

when a strike of tragedy befalls 

For he counts on so little 

from destiny’s ever-whistling kettle 

Dew comes at humility’s dawn 

to him who bled from the thorns  

His soul is not soiled and empty 

though empty-handed he be 

Published by montecyril

Hi, I am Monte Cyril Rodrigues and live in Melbourne, Australia. I am a retired journalist. I have been diagnosed with schizophrenia. I've had voices and visions all my life. I think it is a spiritual experience, my doctors think otherwise. I am a deeply spiritual person and keep having experiences with otherworldly realms.

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