Holy Hill

Walk up the holy hill

A trail beside a fence

Where the grass is heaven

Each blade a twinkling star

And the sheep rest in peace

Beneath the shepherd’s gaze

There is no exertion

But the cares you may bring

Pressed heavy on your back

Old bones stuffed in a pack

Take off the rattling mount

Tie it to a fence post

And let the winds bounce her

Like a shriveled, old shrew

Then continue your way

Up the cobblestone trail

With no thought in your mind

For what to eat nor drink

The Good Lord will feed you

Whisper dew to your soul

Lift up your heavy chin

And lead you to your home

Published by Michael Sean Erickson

I write, act, and produce films in Los Angeles. Everything else is conjecture.

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