I write poetry
Only to make the emptiness,
Less empty

Disciples , Disciples , Disciples . . .
Everyone becomes one
Everyone denies the fact
We all run around
with some kind
of a monkey on our backs
Just like all of the
Marys , Bobs and even all the Sues
we crave to belong
just like they will to do
They gather in the forest
Cutting down the trees
Decorate them in gold and silver tinsel and many colored lights
Then turn them on and worship them in their celebrations far into the night
Is it a made to form idol
of wooden dreams desired
That is tossed out back in the alleys
Or burned up in the raging fires
Man makes the idols
God made the hands that do

The Son has dawned
The Son has just arrived
After darkness for six months
Its now dawned again
Yes, the Son has arrived
And I embrace the warmth
Loneliness so cold
Dispelled by the Son
The Father, the son of a gun
Is happy now
For the Son has dawned
Dawned just now