The dove has flown away into whiteness,
The doe filled with an unborn verse.
Live, little poem- yet to be written-
And the words gnaw away like a dark wolf.

The eye of the world is on you,
The ink is drowning on my page.
The pearl of thought escaping
My oblivion born into a dark innocence.

Little poem yet to born
Up from the nightingale's journey
Into a subtle abundance,
Like an invasion of white lilies.

From my graveyard of angelic thoughts,
Flowing like a blind star,
The creature that is born
Like the Apple untouched in Eden.

I left you in the morning,
And in the morning glow,
You walked a way beside me
To make me sad to go.
Do you know me in the gloaming,
Gaunt and dusty gray with roaming?
Are you dumb because you know me not,
Or dumb because you know?

All for me?  And not a question
For the faded flowers gay
That could take me from beside you
For the ages of a day?
They are yours, and be the measure
Of their worth for you to treasure,
The measure of the little while
That I’ve been long away.

-
                    "Who's with me
                     To **** that tree
                In the middle of the sea?

Hanging between boundaries,
Golden leaves, mouth-watering
Sent war on countries neighboring.
Blood spilt, on heaven's ground
Where no innocent souls found.

                     Oh, those leaves!
                       A single piece,
                  Could worth a feast,
            But of what origin, atleast?!

But no! Let's **** that tree.
Draw our swords,
For a mighty peace!
Let's **** that tree!
Whose roots are

I planted a hand
  And there came up a palm,
I planted a heart
  And there came up balm.

Then I planted a wish,
  But there sprang a thorn,
While heaven frowned with thunder
  And earth sighed forlorn.

Awakening will find me
through the daily mundane
faith's step in front of tiny step
for the sake of Christ's great name
Even David the brave did not set out
with a lofty ambition to see the giant slain
but walked forth instead with a servant's heart
obediently for his father, carrying cheese and grain
and as he went in faithfulness about this simple errand
God raised him up with sling and stone to champion His fame

The rain runs,
spreading the stone polished
and clean.
Like this, you must
let the water slip
on the back of your unkissed neck,
the curved dips between
your fingertips,
nestle
in the soft folds around your waist
that you hate,
and stumble on your collarbones,
your genetic mistakes.

Let it slide on the stretch marks
skimming your thighs
like fog diffusing across the hills,
and inside the grooves of your too-large ears,
form little streams.
Let it wash away
and unearth these parts of you
where you don't want to look,
where your lotion never reaches.

These are the little patches of soil
you must water with care.
Flowers, flaws -
how much is the difference?
One day a lover will give them a kiss
and you will understand
why we are so tender
with broken things.

Let them bloom, and see yourself
wilder, as you grow,
for gardens are most beautiful
with some ferociousness.

They hail you as their morning star
Because you are the way you are.
If you return the sentiment,
They'll try to make you different;
And once they have you, safe and sound,
They want to change you all around.
Your moods and ways they put a curse on;
They'd make of you another person.
They cannot let you go your gait;
They influence and educate.
They'd alter all that they admired.
They make me sick, they make me tired.