Oh
to be found, soaring—with black wings. Color in broken
parts,
and white suffers heart. Sirens ring through ghettos.
We
know for pressure, to wrestle God—the grace of Jacob.
Oh
to be found, to tailor prayers, to surge through motion.
She’s
a belle, the life of a nun, running to glory. We never
speak,
from smile to nod, semi-exiled. Oh to be found, a
born
image, where fabric bleeds. Infuse us—Lord; make
for
an hybrid wind, ever for wisdom. There’s a turnstone,
to
witness life, imbued through vision; for much to feel, to
experience
wealth, saturated with stories. More hymns for
ice,
to live with Jinns, to worship angels. He’s keen for the
collar,
to mimic Joseph—made numb and holy. There’s a
whisper,
to repeat for caves, an otic revelation. Oh to be
found,
even to mine, grounded at the nave. We love for
glory,
a field of ghosts, to praise the Paraclete.
Time
speaks
a journey, planted in secrets, to infuse a client.
We
hide to garner life, to uproot sorrow, to a neat degree.
Oh
to be found, soaring through turquoise skies.
