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countless emptinesses charactized as virtues
countless directions when we really dont know what to do
abundance of the lack of truth
lack of abundance of much of anything
wells run dry
we are ready
waiting to be filled
pour into us
we will be powerless not to overflow.
you are the tiniest of scattered things
remembered in the cloudiest of dreams
so vivid when i sleep, sink deep, or
fly high into my head,
you are the characters in the books i have read,
the heroes, both living, and dead,
you are among the greatest of my ambitions,
you are a man, and to become one like you were is my mission,
but you are missing,
you were father, healer of hurts, great counselor,
confidante,
you were there when i was in the room,
but i was not,
when i broke into two,
a shell of me, and i,
wishfully, blissfully,
irridescent moon,
you are, silver-hair, scattered through the many rooms,
the sudden, unexpected trill of an old familiar tune,
you are sometimes the songs you sang,
sometimes the silences
sometimes the gentle rain
sometimes my tears, or violences,
the woods we walked, the talks we talked
the cluttered house,
faded graphite, scribbled in the corners of notebooks, on walls,
in phonebooks, and on all
of my cards,
you are often here
when i am gone
and i am often gone
when you are near
it is the reuniting that i long for,
it is the forgetting that i fear.
you are all around me, but fading,
you are a pencil drawing,
losing its shading.
a perfect snapshot, on aging paper
once and only once a perfect snapshot, later
smeared, torn, lost, or forgotten,
burned, replaced with another, eaten by moths,
found wet, molded, yellowed, or rotten.
Returned to earth, or dust, or ash,
and though i long  to hold you in a perfect memory..
time...
must pass.
i miss you.
A tree whose roots lie deep within the earth
stabbed into the stone foundation of faith
a place of shadow - obscured and often miscalculated
whose leaves seek sunlight
and the warmth of glory
as they unfurl
from the trunk rooted in the past
from shadow to lightgrows the tree
especially when it catches fire
Knock on the sky and listen to the sound
It sounds much like footsteps forward, and their memory on the ground.
Human:
made to be broken:
for restoration
Words:
made to be spoke:
to silence creation.

For shadows
marked the victory of light
when thunderheads
turned midday into night
and earthquakes
ripped the skin off of a goat
when peace and quiet
broke the purple coat

two forked tongue
split truth in half
with a lie;
with three words
man made a lie a laugh
as he cried
out to his father
"it is finished"
before he was done
removing the sting from a dragon
as he awoke
wrapped in the cloak
of sunday's morning
they were no longer mourning
sun
More of a poet than she knows
and it shows
God breathes life into her words
They flow
from the top of my head through my toes
the imprint they leave
echoes. . .
             echoes. . .
shell.
it is beyond rare...
this could truly result in a marriage not of body...
but of souls...
a picture of  something indivisible -
with lines that are indistinguishable
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