Brutus, Judas
By Linda A. Copp  

That this should be my life
And this soil my only friend.
Can I ask of the horizon
O'er the questions which have been?
Can I hold within my fingers,
The essence of a man?
Is there any tragedy,
That I don't understand?
And can they call me cruel,
For surviving Heaven's hell?
Can they mock me solely,
For the way I rose and fell?
Still the colors fall around me.
The leaves dancing in the breeze.
Indeed, there is no friend for me,
Who loves me like the trees.
Those trees who watched me wither,
The same who dried my tears,
And when humanity dressed me Judas,
They and they will know the truth.
In this very agony,
That lovers never know,
I walk this land, Uncertainty,
But I ask you does it show?
The hurt, the lonely, The knowing that,
You can't ever see my face
No, no, My Love, I'll smile once again,
For I can't take you to that place.

By Linda A. Copp
©August 18, 1971

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