In singing your song, I forgot my own. By shadows to
return, nibbling darkness. Most of life has drums, violins, walls and arts.
Faced by you, to imagine fairness—the way it suffers.
Dearer than breath, examining me, the Lord is said to
relive.
A pile of ashes. A flickering candle. Sensuous goodness.
It’ll open. Many visitations. Love at churning heat.
To barely a morsel. Satiated uneasiness.
Found in a stupor. A crib in its den. Lazy forgiveness.
Required in submission, an avalanche of caring, with
anxiety ruling.
To chuckle at self, taken so seriously, parts with
pieces.
