A half-remembered face
But so many important memories
What happened to all of them?
What makes me forget
The other
Half of this face?

Thy voice is on the rolling air;
  I hear thee where the waters run;
  Thou standest in the rising sun,
And in the setting thou art fair.

What art thou then? I cannot guess;
  But tho' I seem in star and flower
  To feel thee some diffusive power,
I do not therefore love thee less:

My love involves the love before;
  My love is vaster passion now;
  Tho' mix'd with God and Nature thou,
I seem to love thee more and more.

Far off thou art, but ever nigh;
  I have thee still, and I rejoice;
  I prosper, circled with thy voice;
I shall not lose thee tho' I die.

There is a great darkness
But behold
The light of day does come
It will shatter the night

There is a great pain
But wait
Relief will flow freely
And overwhelm the sorrow

There is a great fear
But wonder
Joy will rain like a storm
It will cover over the terror

There is a great *******
But rise
Chains will fall away
And restore the dejected.

(theinkthatspeaks.blogspot.com)

I woke one morning and could not see
My eyes were shut
Then to my astonishment
My sight came rushing back, surprising my hopeless life

For a moment in time, after my new outlook
Darkness came back
And I was much afraid
That it had returned, forever to bind me again

This burning question
Then possessed me
Can those in darkness truly come to light
If they still have flashes of their night?

I turned this over and over
Finally concluding they could
For Stockholm Syndrome
Is a reality

Those who live in darkness
For so long, are bound
To be shortly plunged back, inconsistently
Though they are free

I then realized
My fear in this troubling return
Had only existed for a time so short
And that I need not be afraid

For this is the cunning of the darkness
To make minutes, days
And hours, centuries
To twist the mind in an effort for control

For the darkness runs in deep rivers of the heart
And when light overwhelms
It is not eager to relent
But reluctant to loosen its grasp.

(theinkthatspeaks.blogspot.com)

gun unslung
hanging by his side
swaying with his step

his step thorough
leaving sand behind
floating like particles of dust

dust now forgotten
as his step imprints
upon broken glass

glass shatters more
crumbling
like the cities of Israel
beneath the feet
of falsely declared gods

gods that now drive the mind
with intrepid pace
towards the unsuspecting

the unsuspecting victim
of such malice
that can only be embodied
by death

death
only defied by those
who can truly consider themselves
wholesome and true

and yet the truth struggles
to stop this relentless growth
of pride and self righteousness

and thus the marksman
raises the gun to his target

his breath steady
his heartbeat in his ears

a resonance that he despises
his imperfections are his enemy
And if not to be perfect then what else?

he pulls the trigger