Hand to I

I’ve tried to search for something more

But found something less

What ‘s worst the thing I lost

Was the thing I loved the best

On distant shore in Foreign land

I plied my skill and trade

But in each article crafted by my hand

Was the mark my creator made

As if a face in a mirror

Its visage haunts me still

And in its passing words, the manufacture

Of His mighty skill

It’s what I hoped for yes

It’s what my heart desired

But in the breaking of the mould, I guess

A new form of life was fired

Can the time that’s gone be had,

Again, any more than yesterday?

For what we thought was Good or Bad

Seems to change by the New light of Day

What I once thought Golden

Was only a beach of yellow sand

Just a beauty that in my eye was beholden

Yet crafted by his hand

And as such is all more temporary

For the passing of the day

Will wash like the sea

All signs in the sand of the children who there did play

Can I think it right?

Neigh, might I think it pays

To weigh rainbows with colours bright

Which in the painter’s palette lays?

Will the hand that writes

Be the hand that stays

For what is it than to put black pen to white

And hasten the Judgement day