What we are called to, I don’t fit in.
My dreams have cataracts,
And deflated noise
Reverberates with far too much meaning.
I cheapen all that I touch.
There is a Kingdom closer than the hands in front of my face
And I can almost smell the grace it’s built upon
But my eyes, my eyes,
Cedar forests grow therein
And who needs demons when I have thoughts?
There has got to be more than hunches
Because premonitions have no grip.
Glimpses last as long as my eyes remain closed.
I’m here, but not yet.
You’re here, but not yet.
It’s here, but not yet.
What am I to think,
For surely,
Someone must be to blame for what is not.
No comments:
Post a Comment