Pain

Pain is what you call it,
So sufficient...he never begs.
He never speaks of mercy,
As he runs up through my legs.

He acts just like a demon,
With a bold side-wayish grin.
Just sizing -up and figuring out,
Before he edges -in.

He looks upon God's people,
Who are laid upon a shelf.
He tears among their tissue,
To supplement himself.

O he is such an actor,
His ways are not all known.
His power is pushed foremost,
That his prestige might be shown.

Just how he draws man's face asunder,
Is a mystery...by his style.
Making all the hurts of humans,
And closing out their want to smile.

E.P. 1908 - 1989