Yeah, whatever

And in each day I stand,

Waiting and wondering

And each passing moment

Watching them break

On everything I do. Read the rest of this entry »

By the yellow light

of all these burning bridges.

Embers of avarice twirling in the evening sky.

You can almost see smoldering pasts in the rolling smoke.

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I say “nothing is nothing”

You say “But look, here is eternity”

I say “What eternity?”

You say “The one you’re standing in.”

I scream out into the darkness

only my own voice will answer me.

I beat my fists against the walls of the church

While you sit, mute on your mountain.

I beg into heaven

with only the wining stars to hear me.

I fall onto the freezing ground

You just turn and walk away.

I memorized the symbols

The hard collection of your faces.

I etch your names into the wood

I seek you in each opulent house.

And I see no sign

And I see no proof.

I see only the dust

and hear the cries of the refugees

you leave behind

I say “what is it with this world you’ve made?”

You say nothing at all to me.

I say “Where in this world do I fit in?”

You say “Anywhere you want to, but here.”

I peer into the abyss

And see myself from high above.

I look into my own eyes

And see you staring back out at me.

I pray deep in the bones of your temples.

I disturb the dust with my breath.

I see your truth to it all

In all of these dry, brittle pages.

I try to believe. . .

I try to believe. . .

But I see no sign

That you are love and love is eternal

And I see no proof

That you are wise and you are forgiving.

I see only these stars

and the gulf left in the wake of your distance

And feel only the grass beneath my feet.

I see no miracle, No matter how much I want to.

I see no shape, No language for your promised prophecy.

I want to believe. . .

I wish to believe. . .

But there is no sign

And there is no proof

There are only these words. . .

And no walls to contain them. . .

I wish I believed. . .

Could heaven come calling
as these dawn hours draw closed?

Could it come dressed as a vagrant
with nothing new to tell?

Could it come as a blazing angel
with angry wings and a heavy hand?

Could heaven then know me
if we should pass on the street?

Me with all these heavy stones
and nothing new to tell?

Would heaven then stop me
with a light touch on the arm
To stop me from crossing
the wet and empty street?

Could heaven then bring me
someplace familiar
Surround me with friends
with something worthwhile to say?

Could heaven know me
as we each stagger by?

Heaven toward it’s place
me off towards mine?

Each with our heavy stones
and hidden wings?

Could heaven seek me out
and call me  by name?

Or would heaven simply walk on by
with nothing at all to say?