I wrote that my
Eight year old
Is no longer screaming,
That a loving hand
Watered the budded rose
Deep within him
And therefore me,
And thereby changed
EVERYTHING,

Now life is like walking
Across an ancient battlefield,
I know for sure
That armed struggle
And violence took place
Right where I walk,
But now the breeze
Carries only the sound
Of bird's songs

My feet swish through
Meadow grass,
No longer mud
From Flanders fields,
I like,
No in fact I love
Walking here now,
Will you perhaps
Come walk here too?

"No," he said quite softly, tender sorrow in his eyes.
"I always wanted you to grow up. But I never meant for you to stop being a child."

If I try to say "I'm sorry" one more time I just might wither into nothing.
Why are you so kind?
I'm starting and ending in all the wrong places, but You won't let go.
What does it mean that You're with me when I'm being stupid?
Does it still matter when everything is my fault? Or mostly my fault. Or partly my fault. But still I don't know how to stop.

Teach me a beautiful song.
I might not sound like it fits at first,
but I think you're swaying along
and it's like I've always known these words.

I wasn't made for the dust
I was raised from the dust
I was made for an "us" and a whisper.
The place where we meet
our secret retreat
is where I was born.

I don't know the way in or out, what is up or is down, but I know you--
I'm starting to know You.

What I know is sweet.
What I know is kind.
What I know is more than sufficient to kick down my doors every time.
What I know is wild.
What I know is sure.
What I know won't fail to answer like each of the answers before.
I know that you're more than
an abstract ideal.
I know that you know me.
I think that you're real.

Accept me. I trust You. Without You, I'll die.
I have You. I miss You. I'll tell all of the shadows You're mine and I am Yours.