The door opens suddenly,
Enter she that I love dearly,
But her stare is blank and desolate,
And her skin is pale and sickly.

She falls and wails beside the couch,
She feels her soul is split,
She needs embrace I cannot give,
She would not dare permit.

For touch of man disgusts her,
The sight of man reviles her,
And I cannot even comfort her,
Because a man defiled her.

I sit and weep away from her,
I could not have comprehended,
I pray she’ll rise and carry through,
But for now, for this abiding moment of grating pain and grief beyond understanding,
For now, her world has ended.

Love, very heart of mine,
You ask if I will kiss you,
When you know that I cannot.

My person aches and writhes
At the loss of such affection.
Will you hurt in my answer as I am hurt in your question?

Though in it I see hope of consolation,
For I know I will kiss you again someday,
When our bodies meet and our spirits rest.

But for now, my beating heart,
Oh beautiful and wild thing,
For now, I can only but offer you this:

My soul is reaching out.
It is entangling yours in the realm above,
And it is kissing you with the passion of colliding stars.

On day of sun and summer heat,
A young man farms among the wheat,
His work ne’er seen as any feat,
Its purpose be to quotient meet,
                In the fields of Camelot.
His work complete hours after noon,
He lies to rest in light of moon,
‘Neath willow tree he hears a tune,
                Come from strange Shalott.

Was not the first this song he heard,
As sweet as chirping of a bird.
To where is seen the water gird
His ears had often promptly turned,
                Away from Camelot.
The singer fair, he did not know,
But song his face would light aglow,
And often thoughts of his would blow,
                Upon the isle, Shalott.

“In cursed seal, the isle is shrouded,”
Said those around the market crowded.
The boy had thought their judgments clouded,
The love he had he never doubted,
               Despite the words of Camelot.
For voice there trapped in lightless tower,
He often dreamt of lending power,
To see her free, the captured flower,
               The Lady of Shalott.

When time was right, there came a day,
As clouds in somber mood turned grey,
To bring to light that which he pray.
And so, with nothing left to say,
               He ran toward Camelot.
At river there, he found great length.
Though with no boat, he reached the banks,
For in the fields he’d found the strength,
               To make it to Shalott.

His body cold, his soul ablaze,
He made his way to open door,
Climbed up the stairs in lighting poor,
And in his mind he thought no more
                Of busy Camelot.
But in her room, he found it bare,
With only woven works of care,
Which all revealed such beauty rare,
                Of worlds outside Shalott.

And though within his heart he knew,
The voice he loved had bid adieu,
Her memory remaineth true,
                The Lady of Shalott.

Blessed are the broken, because in them there's something to fix.
Blessed are the destitute, because their arms are wide open.
Blessed are the blind, because they truly appreciate the light.

Blessed is the homeless man you glared at last Tuesday on your way back from work, because his soul is searching for a real home while yours is watching netflix in bed.
Blessed are the simple-minded, because they seem to be the only ones who can understand the promises given them by the eternal deity anymore now that science has disproven the infinite and almighty creator's existence without the least understanding of what infinite even means.
Blessed are the ones in the background of your selfish and 'significant' lives, because they are the colors that God uses to paint the masterpiece that is the space between the physical and spiritual realm, the elaborate painting that we get to walk and breathe and live through each day, the one with the smell of winter's cold and warm fires, the one with the flowering cycles of the most beautiful orchids and the ripeness of a fresh mango, the one where the oceans dance with the shore and the great cliffs watch in awe, and the one with the tender autumn snuggles on a chilly goodnight. They are the reason the poets have anything to write about at all, and the reason they take joy in writing what they do.

Blessed are the empty vessels, because I am in love with the humble and weak, and I wish to fill those who seek me and give them life and joy everlasting.

His family had moved again.
New country, new home, new school.
It was September.
He walked the hallways, headphones blasting, towards the first class of his first day.
As he walked, he crashed into a girl, and they both flew to the ground.
His mind went blank.
As he regained his senses, he looked towards the girl.
Her eyes were green, and her hair was auburn.
Her glasses rested upon her nose, and her clothes were horribly, yet somehow perfectly, mismatched.
He saw a spark of something, perhaps a spirit close to his.
He quickly picked up her books and her papers and started to apologize again and again.
She, too, apologized several times and told him that she was fine.
Their stumbling about on the floor attracted the laughter of the students around them.
He could tell he would not be popular here, though it seemed the girl was not either.
As it turns out, the girl was headed to the very same class as he was.
They sat next to each other during class in awkward silence.
Later that day, he snuck outside to eat his sandwich beneath a tree.
And so, he found out, had she.
Not wanting to make this more awkward than it already was, he decided it best to speak.
And so, he spoke, but only a name.
She replied to him with a name, but she added a “please do sit.”
So, he sat and he shared a bit about his life, though not of his own desire, but hers.
She, too, shared about her life.
After a few minutes of questions, she realized she would not get anywhere quickly with him.
She decided to ask him to meet her down by the lake later in the evening.
A lake he knew nothing about.
In the back of his mind he knew that they would be friends.
He thus agreed, and so it was that they met later that day to talk.
They did not talk about their stories, but about their experiences.
When came October, the two sat by each other on a cliffside, looking out unto the horizon.
She said she liked the sunset.
He said he liked the sunrise.
The two met somewhere in between.
On one snowy January night, she ran away into the woods.
He followed her closely behind.
She danced there in the moonlight, the snow cascading down her fiery hair.
He, too, danced, though he knew he danced poorly.
She grabbed his hand and they danced together through the night.
When April came, he picked a daisy from the ground and presented it to her.
She put it in her auburn hair, a symbol of the connection they now shared.
June arrived, and his mother and father sat him down.
They had promised this move was final, but they had lied to him that August morning.
He ran to her house where they wept for hours, as she held his head close to her heart.
His spirit was fractured in late July, as he boarded an airplane going nowhere.
His mind went blank.
As he regained his senses, he looked towards the girl.
Her eyes were green, and her hair was auburn.
Her glasses rested upon her nose, and her clothes were horribly, yet somehow perfectly, mismatched.
He saw a spark of something, perhaps a spirit close to his.
And so, as quickly as he could, he stood and walked away.
That year he would have no friends.
That year he would have no soul.
In October, he sat on a cliffside alone.
He had liked the sunrise once, but he always knew it would set no matter what he did.
January was cold, and as he sat in wooded land under the moonlight he tried to cry.
Not because he felt sad, but because he knew he could never truly feel sadness again.
There was a flower one April morning near the school’s entrance.
It was a daisy.
He did not see it, nor did he care to.
When July came around, his empty spirit remained empty, and his pain changed not one bit.
He made a terrible sacrifice that year.
But it was his alone to bear.

Is there a word for when I’m so lonely
that my body writhes and I begin to cry?
Is there a word for when my solitude, my prison,
causes me tangible agony?
Is there a word for when my soul is drowning
in that infinitely black abyss of seclusion?
Is there a word for when I desire someone
to know me better than I know myself?
Is there a word for when all I want
is to stare into your eyes for all of eternity?
Is there a word for when all that I am is screaming out
for all that you are?
Is there a word for wanting to be wholly overtaken by a singular word that can express my innermost pain and desires in all their complexities?

I know in my heart that there must be, for my existence
has been searching.
It is such a word that if spoken would rend me apart,
spirit from body.
Yet here I persist, longing to be torn, if only to know you better.

She walks in sorrow, like the night
Of shrouded stars and darkened skies;
And all dissension of dark and bright
Meet in her essence and her eyes;
Thus cheated of that tender light
Which heaven to downcast nights denies.

One ray the more, one shade the less,
Could not reveal the subdued grace
Which hides in every amber tress
Or rarely shows in humble face;
Where thoughts in earnest plea express,
How meek, yet strong their dwelling-place.

And on that cheek, and o’er that brow,
So torn, so veiled, yet eloquent,
The smiles evoked, the tears that glow,
Tell conquered loss through spirit spent,
A beauty transcending earth below,
A love from unloved innocence!

I see it in the distance.

Hope.

It’s a candle in the deepest darkness shining brighter than the sun.
It’s your essence imbuing you with aspirations and confidence.
It is anticipated fulfillment.



I feel it in the air.

Acceptance.

It’s a community that’s there for you no matter how many times you mess up.
It’s your spirit filling you with understanding and compassion.
It is innate belonging.



I hear it all around.

Joy.

It’s a laughter that pierces through all doubts and fears to reveal beauty and truth.  
It’s your soul electrifying you with wonder and intensity.
It is tangible purity.



I believe it in my heart.

Love.

It’s a hand reaching out to save a world lost within itself.  
It’s your all giving everything it has to others.
It is dynamic sacrifice.

I stare at the giant orb in the sky above me, so beautiful and bright. The stars to its left and to its right twinkle. It’s as if they dance around its radiant glow.

     Oh, how deeply I wish I could be there now, to dance among them. But here I lie, waiting for something to change. It feels like so long ago that my life crashed and fell apart here in this desolate place. It’s only a matter of time now before I disappear, like so many others. Never remembered. Never to shine again.

     The dust is heavy beneath me, so grey and dull. Every day I wonder what it would be like to spend just one day around that blue and green planet. But I cast the thought aside, for here on the moon I stay until I fade away like all the rest.

Saving up, set aside
Looking for tomorrow’s joy
You’ve missed the great today

Why does it seem like we are always putting out so many fires?

It seems so tauntingly inevitable.
You and I talk about a lot, and we get hurt sometimes.
We don’t fight in anger, but my pride is unruly and stupid.
We don’t love incompletely, but there are sacrifices we have not yet made.
But you are the greatest love I’ve ever had, and there is nothing I wouldn’t do for you.

So then why all the freaking fires?

I have had a thought.
Perhaps the flames simply must burn when a meteor loves an inferno.

The truck bounces as we navigate the rocky plains
With a thud we make a turn down a path we made for ourselves
We have some crates in the back with a month of loose groceries
Odds and ends of what we can’t grow or raise on our own

A ways down the path, through the grass and the rocks
Driving out towards a backdrop of snow-crest mountains
Just over the hill in the distance
Stands a small little house, painted white, roof of red
That we built from the ground to the sky

I look at you from behind the wheel, and I find you smiling back
In your eyes is the comfort of returning home
You reach out your hand, and I grasp it in mine
And we drive a little longer together

Pulling up through the gravel, we park in the cold
As I lean in to kiss your rosy countenance
But you turn the last second, and our lips meet in warmth
And I’m mist like the fog of the morning
Yours as always, gently reminded when I need no reminder

While we unload the crates, we hear a door loudly opened
Out comes our favorite little one running
Though he’s not very little anymore

You embrace him, not withholding your love and affection
Your delight in him never ceasing
He runs to my aid as I hand him a crate
With a kiss on the forehead for payment

As we enter our home, our own lovely home
We remember the work and the sweat
That was poured into the wood that makes up the door frame
And the time that was spent in the planning

But look at it now, so sturdy and right
Perfect for the family we started
So simple, so elegant, with a rustic appeal
A few paintings collected through the years of our love

After emptying crates, stocking shelves and cold pantries
Making meals from the harvest we sowed through God’s blessings
We decided the day’d reached its end
So we sat in the sunroom and looked out on the horizon
Holding hands and our son in our arms

Maybe this, sunset speaks
Is the way things should be
In our house on a farm in New Zealand

Maybe this, midnight sleeps
Is the way things should be
With your chest pressed on mine as I love you tonight
As our bodies dance and our tongues sing new tunes
As I hold you tight in sleeping, never letting you go for a moment

Your breath is my substance and your heartbeat my rhythm
Now drifting together in the most comfortable way

Beneath the roof of a house to ourselves

Why am I so tired?
I hide it well, but it hurts more each day
If I told, would that even help?
No, gotta seem strong and intact

After all, it’ll change tomorrow
Something new will come
There will be a breakthrough
Life won’t be as hard tomorrow

No, no, you’ve lost the romance life once had
The smile on your face under the light-veiled trees
There was a hope to your step, governing your heart
But now it’s gone, so it seems

Where did it go?
Am I making it all up in my head?
Seems a lot of nonsense for a man of my age
Hormones are wacky and figuring it out

That’s it, you’re just a cliche
What part of your life has ever been hard?
Depressed? Yeah, right
Typical generational propaganda

I don’t really care enough to care
I’m just saying I’m tired, maybe a little depressed
Though that word holds a power I’d rather ignore
So I’m just tired, alright?

Just a tired, young man on his way to the grave

Green bees, little trees, growing higher and higher to the horizon and back.

Lumbering brother, married to the potter’s daughter. Untied, yet standing silent waiting to be separated, divorced, unloved, and forgotten by children and wife.

Leave me, leave me, leaf me! Better death in unloved water. Towering pillars, scalding, scalded.

Maybe he’ll play basketball.

It rains.
Throughout the field, the puddles splash.
Through the mist, shines lightning flash.
The scent of earth is in the air.
The droplets drip and soak my hair.
Rain falls all around me.

It rains.
Throughout my mind, the ideas splash.
Through the chaos, neurons flash.
Inquisitive thoughts there will remain.
The feelings fall and soak my brain.
Rain falls all around me.

Night has faded into existence.
I am in my room on a bed where I sleep alone.
The pillow pressed around my head seems jagged tonight, like rocks which lie below a cascading waterfall of rushing tears and secrets, of life’s greatest joys and deepest griefs.

In the dark, my mind is often let to wander through worlds outside my own.
But tonight, it storms, and my darkened room is illuminated by the constant sputtering wicks of divine candles that flash through the sky around home and body.
Adventures in mind are begun, but forcibly must be interrupted by the clang of heaven’s laughter, the applause of a host greater than man.
I hear the knock of rain at my door, like an old friend named consolation.

Love.
This is where my mind goes amidst summer storm, for there is terrible romance in the fright of thunder and glow of lightning.
The glorious display of supernatural orchestration pierces through the soul’s wandering compositions and makes audible a concerto that has been practiced and played more times than care to be counted.
Love is its title.

Where could she be?
My soul is hers, and hers is mine.
I earnestly desire to feel it close to me, to know it better as my equal and my likeness.
If rend my soul I must, then rend it I will, if only to match it with hers for all eternity.

I long to belong.
Yet what is her name?
I do not know, for I have not felt, nor have our spirits crossed on this plane or another.
But her essence has always been in my eyes, looking out upon the sunset, admiring the trees as they dance in the wind, reading a novel by one with a talent for capturing my very thoughts and emotions in deep ink.

Tell me your name, kindred spirit.
Speak it to me in the clamoring thunder.
Whisper it to me in the chilling wind.
Emblazon it onto my heart by lightning strike.

God calls me in my searching.
His plan is good and faithful, and my trust in Him is unwavering.
He knows her name; therefore, I am content.

I’m on the boat again, rocking back and forth amid
the restless waves and torrential rains.
You were always wild, that’s nothing new.
I look out into the beautiful colors of the distant horizons,
like a rising sun-shined hope.
You were one I always looked forward to seeing,
no matter the occasion.
I’m called by a timid voice pulling me to my feet,
coming from a place far away.
You were always so welcoming, with a social gravity all of your own.
I step out onto the deck and the waves rise, then I lose my footing,
falling into the depths.
You were always so beautifully deep in so many of the best ways.
I’m drowning now, the water filling my lungs and carrying me slowly further from the boat.
Wait… I can’t breathe.
Although, I suppose you do have that effect on me.

I snap out of my daze to find you still sitting there,
a smile resting on your face.
Your smile pulls me out of my body every time.
I take another look at your eyes and decide I want to make them mine, pulling you in close.
Your body burns up my stars and directs my spirit’s flowing waters.
I tangle your golden tresses through my hand and realize my hand is living to its own.
You have a way of taking my will, and I don’t hesitate to surrender it.
I look to the clock hung upon my wall
and notice in its place a grey haze.
You feel like eternity in my arms, and I’ve never wanted it more.
I’m leaning in to kiss you, and my body refuses to breathe air,
taking in your life as my own.
Wait… I can’t breathe.
But I don’t really care.

How did I not see this before?
How did I miss this great desire?
To think, you were only my best friend.
Now you're my only.
I’m sorry it took me this long.
You’re patient, though.

Notice how the world is made up of people always looking for the easiest way out.
Time and effort are spent planning daily routines, with people plotting their next project and purpose.
People even plan the next time they'll have time to take a break to plan all over again.
But has anyone ever made a dime off of inefficient efficiency?

Don't waste your time thinking through every scenario you may face just to avoid a little hassle.
Use that time to either do something or just admit you'd like to find some peace of mind, then look for it earnestly elsewhere.
Plus, trouble is where the fun is at, and conflict brings fresh perspective if you have a heart for kindness.
So I'd like to do my best at shying clear of inefficient efficiency.

You have known the love of God,
He’s called you to His throne.
The law of death is crucified,
His life is now your own.

Yet flesh appeals through painful cry,
“Do not forget my needs!”
You hear the whispers of a lie,
“Have you been truly freed?”

Oh, wretched man, the law of sin has governed you too long.
Are your desires held through trial?
Oh, wretched man, your spirit grieves the work that you have done.
Who will deliver you?
Who will deliver the defiled?

There is a man of love divine
Who came to earth to die.
He asks that you would follow Him
And know eternal life.

These things I do desire to see
But I cannot find the will.
Yet even from upon the tree
He smiles upon me still.

“Oh, wretched man, the law of sin has governed you too long.
You know your freedom has been won.
Oh, wretched man, your spirit aches as proof of what I’ve done.
I have delivered you.
I have delivered you, my son.”

I am wholly overcome with you.
Your portrait hangs upon the innermost walls of my spirit's sanctum.
Your ivy extends across my ancient heart, fortress of my imagination.

Oh, to fathom the depths of you.
I am lost within your labyrinth.
You are wholly overcoming me, and I welcome it thoroughly.

Everyone's always telling you to find out who you are.
"There's a fully known and understood 'you' out there somewhere."
It's in books and in poems, a deeper desire of humanity.

But I've taken months and years out of my life to find this 'me'.
I've been searching for so long, and nothing.
The paths I've been walking down have all been so empty.

So a short while ago I decided to quit looking.
Suddenly, I realized the irony of finding out who you are.

You can never find out who you are if you're always looking for someone you're not.

Maybe I'll try to accept who I am and see where that gets me.

The smell of you
Consumes me from the inside out
It burns across my skin like wildfire
And ignites my constellations
It pulls me ever closer
As my spirit finds its home

It's snowing outside, and as I watch the snow fall I feel again that great pull of cosmic whatever-you-call-it. That strange feeling that brings nostalgia and romance of things I never knew but somehow always wanted. Of places I've never been and adventures I long to go on.

It's cheesy and stupid, but all I want to do is write it down. I want to quantify it, to describe it in some way. I want to hold it, to see it. I want to experience it in more than just fractals of thought, through more than a few fleeting glimpses of spirit.

But I can't. As much as I try and as much as I want it, I will try again and again and always come up short. Perhaps it's simply too pure for me to understand. Some nobody like me, what could I know of that beautiful celestial creation, that wild and crazy feeling that joins the masses and transcends culture and history?

At one point or another, everyone hears the call of the snow, or the whispers of the wind. Some hear the shouts of the waterfall, others still the breathing of the grass. There are thousands around the world who, even now, are stuck in that mysterious place, that twilight landscape between reality and the desires of the spirit. They feel what I feel and hear what I hear.

The kings and queens of old heard it. So, too, the peasants and the slaves. The great poets sought it out, most dying in their search. Some people have even worshiped it, but to no avail.

I can't describe it. I never have, and I never will. Nor will anyone ever describe the feeling. But what I can say is that it will come again.

Tomorrow I'll see it in the sunrise, and you'll smell it in the crackling fire. People all around the world will be lost in that terrifying and enthralling feeling as they stand at a precipice or feel along the rough surface of a badly painted wall, and they'll stumble about trying to describe it, just as I foolishly attempt to do now.

After all of my tears and crumpled pages, only then will I realize the uselessness of doing so. I will cry some more and feel sad over some nothing that happens to mean a lot of things to me for whatever reason.

But in the end, I cannot express how thankful I am that neither I, nor anyone else, will ever describe this beautiful nothing. Because if we did, I'm afraid we would never feel it again.

It is a hard thing to say that you would die from someone.
It is harder still to know you would live and breathe for them.

There's a burn in my essence that feels like a flaming wildfire has set ablaze my body, burning from the inside out.
It's crippling me, but I don't want it to stop.
I would gladly place my life and love upon the altar of the Lord for it to burn for all eternity, if only to be brought closer to Him.

"Crucify him!" they had shouted all those years ago.
Now, Lord, put to death what is in me and take away the sins that keep me from your presence.
I would endure all hardship for the joy of your life in me, for the fullness of your Spirit in baptism and everlasting peace.

Whene'er I turn from you, I always come back more hungry then before, understanding deeper how far I have yet to go.
Yet how much more earnestly do I want to get there.
I ask that you be glorified through my living sacrifice, that as I draw nearer still your intimacy would render me holy in Christ my king.

I thirst for you in this wilderness.
Come, Holy Spirit!
Come!

Flying is ever in my nature, never a home to hold.
I live by the mercy of the wind, should my truth here be told.
I’ve never been one to settle, never one to anchor down.
To be caught in your web should leave me terrified, like I’ve finally run aground.

You called me down from my daily exhausting routine
With the power of your voice and your spirit, unseen.
I was enchanted by your gaze and enraptured by your smile.
So against my very nature, I stopped and chatted for a while.

I couldn’t leave, you know. Your conversation was divine.
The breadth of your mind and heart gave off a radiant shine.
I stayed the night to talk to you and learn your very depths.
I stayed the morning and afternoon just to feel your deepest breaths.

Days passed and then months, and I made myself a name
In the place you called your home and would one day call your grave.
Your web was where I rested my head when the daylight turned to night
The danger never occurred to me, until one fateful fright.

I was tangled, drowning in the fear I resurrected for myself.
What was I doing here, if not to bolster your impressive trophy shelf?
You had caught your fair share of flies before, that much was clear to see.
But then why, I reflected in new composure, had you not brought an end to me?

Flying is ever in my nature, though I had forgotten all this time.
Perhaps I should return to the air and reclaim the life once mine.
But I stopped myself in stupor to reflect on truth once more,
That you have not eaten me as of yet, and you would not prevent my soar.

Your web is not a trap, nor a cage to keep one grounded.
It is a comfy place to lay my head, to begin a life here founded.
You’ve changed me through and through, given me only love and care,
Now I cannot be content aloft, drifting through uncharted air.

I want you in my life forever, and I never want to go back
To when I lived an uncertain life of solitude, having nothing to unpack.
Now I’m rich in character, full to the greatest of extents.
And I love you more than words will say, wholly joyous and content.

Another 'first chapter' written with the rest left unfinished.
I would be weeping if not for the consoling thought
That my writing only narrates transient glimpses into their worlds.
They will live to see another day, with or without my ink.