The Riddle

The musket shrapnel severs limb from limb,
The blunt explosion darkens day to night,
The bleeding gashes tear his life from him,
Extinguishing his home, his love, his life.
Some live for glory, straining in the race,
Their muscle carves the prize of ash and dust,
Some scheme for riches and the pride of place,
Yet gold and favor both corrode to rust,
Some seek the thrill of pleasure’s biting taste,
Enflamed they revel, and they soon combust,
Some plow papyrus, for Truth’s lettered face,
To find opinion, falsehood, and mistrust.
Yet I pursue the riddle’s end of life,
The cross of love dissolves the pain of strife.
-Tyler William O’Neil
-February 14, 2010

The Leaves of Autumn

Red, green and yellow fall the autumn leaves,
Cascading to the avenues of men.
They beautify the paths between the trees,
Who guard the joy as earth grows cold again.
Then whoosh- the palms of autumn sweep away,
Surrendering to nails of winter’s frost.
The sun forsakes its child, a shorter day,
And man laments the light that he has lost.
That light himself once trod on autumn palms,
With men who laid “hosannas” at his feet.
Then echoing the winter of the psalms,
Blood asked the Father, “why forsake thou me?”
As trees proclaim hosanna now today,
The cross of winter whispers Calvary.
-Tyler William O’Neil
-October 24, 2009