The fleeting touch
of skin.

The intimacy
of a shared glance.

The simple love
of an unprompted
kindness.

Yet, nothing could
compare with
His grace.

When I pray,
I stand on my Father’s shoes.
I feel Him sway beneath me,
Leading me in a dance
Only He knows the steps to.

The skyline was carefully cut paper,
Notebook lines ruling the windows,
Writing out the lives of figures
In apartments of faded graphite

And bright red pen; the letters
Are only their dancing forms,
Backlit by a tired orange glow--
Other characters blacked out,
With a scribbled X, squares
Of dormant life, flickering.
Is it another person moving in?
Or only someone who finds
Comfort in the darkness of night,
Staring at the leaking ceiling,
Born from tear stains
On rough-handled paper
And the hope that their words
Will somehow subdue the pains
From trying to decipher
this city

We are a stained glass sphere—
Every individual a different color
For Him to shine His light through,
Different tints in intricate patterns
Revolving around one another and
Overlaying the beauty and life He
Gave us to make brand new shades.  
But some panes are ***** and nearly
Opague, blocking the gentle light
Of grace he sends to meet our eyes.
His righteousness is blinding, and
Sometimes we find it easier to let
Gunk build up to block it out, rather
Than face the spotlight on the the
Wrongs we have done—but that
Only leaves the glass mosiac of His
Creation distorted and incomplete,
His heart aching as his Son weeps.
We can spend every moment at
Our colored panes, scrubbing, &
Polishing until our arms are weak,
But only salvation will restore His
Stained glass children to His glory.

The sleeve pitched too low,
The fist that curls like a mouth,
Sour with regret.

An endless round of lashings,
All thirty-nine, wrought upon
Ourselves.

Backs against the wall,
Deadweight in our hearts,
All our fault.

Shame is not from God.

Sometimes we forget
How many of our habits
Are in honor of someone

I watch my fingers curl up
As if they do not know
How to lay flat, relaxed.
I am a strung bow,
Pulled back and taut,
Wincing at the arrow
I constantly hold—
When can I let go? 

When will my stare
Stop swerving from
The target? Nothing
Less than the bullseye
Will do, but exhaustion
Tears at me, causing
My hands to warble
Farther and farther
From what I intend

To reach--the goal
I cannot see myself
Achieving anymore.

The roads of my voice
Are uneven. 

There are dips and
Unforseen turns.
Gorges and caverns,
Wells that sink
Deep into the earth.
Some syllables
Reach to the sky,
Align with the sway
Of the leaves.
I walk like a beggar
Trying to find
My way along the winds,
My throat raw
As I say the words that
mean something.

The arrogance of our consciousness,
The unreliable narrator inside
All of us—

We are blinded by dainty eye masks
Of half-truths & winding thoughts:
How to get around it--

I mute my snaking mind
And ask for truth,
To truly see,
Jesus.

I stared at the words
Until the trees outside
My dimming windows
Started to wilt & bend
Down to the ground.
With a hesitant finger,
I struck the key that
Would only delay all
Of my worries:
D-e-l-e-t-e.

There is one phrase that we all
Know the definition of--a word
That has a thousand tangled
Up meanings, but one we accept
In society as positive & empty
Because it is easier than addressing
The bloodshot eyes & blank stares
That it conceals—I say: “I am fine.”
Do you believe me? No. But, still,
I will continue to say it. Our paths
Cross like an icy voyage, a silent
Relationship that will be forgotten
Once our forced proximity fades
Away, eventually. I almost
Said something, once--but I
Couldn't seem to meet your eyes,
And the only words that came
From my mouth were: "I'm fine."
The next time I say it, will you
Walk the other way? Will I?

Do we see the line
Of purity, & tiptoe
As close to it as
Possible, smiling
As we taunt it,
Reaching over to
Touch the ground
Without our feet
Stepping over,
Teetering on the
Edge of what’s
Considered sin?

By walking in
Christ, we see the
Line, and walk the
Other way--as far
& as long as we can.

Words do not translate as lyrics—
They become fumbled and awkward.

Why do they crumble when I voice
Them aloud?

Isn’t volume supposed to give words
Power?

Blisters sear my fingers, disappointment
Blooms,

And I realize I can only sing the songs
Of others.

When my head is spinning with the blades of excuses
Used by the enemey,
I see Your love in the light of the drapes,
Your glory in the morning.
I say to myself “I am nothing, I am nothing.”
But my hands continue to make plans
Without You in them.
My heart bows to shame, my ears to false prophets,
And I kneel before You, Lord,
Wondering what kind of love allows You to be faithful
To such an unworthy servant.

The tents dotted the landscapes—
Rolling tundras, burnt sienna rocks,
Mountainous rivers, suburban yards,
Hallowed beaches, and empty fields…
We are all homeless, living in the
Temporary tents of our lives here
On earth. Ultimately, our home
Resides with our Savior.

She wears a wig
And a false beauty spot,
Followed by heady perfume
As her makeup melts
In the bright lights.

Am I her
In my
Faith?

The question of how to communicate
Has always plagued me.

I once knew, when I was little, before
People called me bossy.

But I slowly unlearned, thinking that
Timidity was preferable.

It was more acceptable to society
For my words to fumble.

But why is that? Why are words so
Feared when truthful?

Can we not simply speak our minds,
Refusing to sugarcoat?

I have always thought the sugary rim
Of a glass too bitter.

It leaves a sour taste in my mouth,
Resembling a sweet lie.

How do we learn to communicate
Properly, when forever
Serving frosting off sharp knives?

I am nothing.
I smile with the thought.
Because Jesus

Is Everything.

Gratified storm clouds,
Rain that never stops,
Slowing its downpour—
Did all of those tears
Travel down the drains,
Through the aquaducts,
To the Earth’s core?

Has that become the
Epicenter of our world:
The Sky's Sorrow?