He prayed, unsure his words would rise
To heaven. He sowed in doubt, no eyes
To see a harvest. He read the pages
Of Scripture, clouded the God of ages.

Surprised, he saw the walking dead,
The mute speak words, the poor find bread,
Despair embrace hope, the weak become strong —
And he was glad to be proved wrong.

By J. Randal Matheny © 2015

The world of sound and sight is dead to me,
I cannot hear, nor feel, nor smell, nor see,
The clouds descend to touch the muted ground,
Both smothering fog and finest rain surround.
Deprived of senses, have I returned to the womb?
Or is this gray cocoon an early tomb?
Does there exist some sunny world beyond?
If I call out, will someone there respond?
This weathered solitude leaves me in doubt,
Can I escape it by simply stepping out?
Or must I await a change of atmosphere,
To see the sun and get me out of here?

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