The theologian's heart sits heavy in his chest.
He has searched, sought, and out-thought the best.
Yet, he has nothing to show for his quest but gray hairs and a book nest.

Scoffers scoff as scoffers do.
Such is expected, for the Way is few.

The theologian needs not a pat on the back.
Nor gold, for he has no lack.

He knows that of making books there is no end,
He has no credit by which to lend.

Still he writes, and still he reads
Still he taps, and still he kneads

Until his heavy heart stops beating.
Now he'll see if his theology was fleeting.
Such it was if not God he's meeting and if not Christ he's greeting.

I am a liar
I told her I loved her
so as not to start a fire
but now that she's heard it
I must say it again
if I said "I love you" 7 times
I have lied 7 times
I don't even know how many lies I've told
even though the context of every one is the same:
I love you
this made a new truth in me
a truth I tell myself as often as I tell her a lie:
I hate myself
now that feels much better
the twisted honesty of it restores me
so that I look for a reason to say it again
I love you
I am a liar
I hate myself

Into your mind



S h o w  m e
Your deepest thoughts



F e e d  m e
Your darkest lies

drifting alone
through this desert
through these solitary sands
isolated
and deserted
the desert fox
without thought or reason
without cause or purpose
this old heart
these young hands
this love I have to give
but no you to give it to
I am wasted without you
my life is shattered
my dreams are lost
where are you?
if not here?
where are you
when I am without you?
I am withering without you
abandoned here
in this barren wasteland
like a flower in the desert
without hope
without water
without love
won’t you free me from this heat?
this unbearable sunlight
too harsh for my eyes
the truth is just so bright sometimes
I do not wish to see myself
not like this
lost like this
but there is no cure
for all that ails me
only time they say
can heal these wounds
that sorry old adage
so I sit and wait
for something else to happen
and I say
**** me or set me free
twisting these sad young hands
as my old heart melts
in the memory of you

I am no Wendy;
but my voice brings you back to me.
And you sit around my feet,
anxious for a story
or a kiss.
Listening to my words
spinning adventures,
like so much golden thread;
spellbound by my gentle whisper.
You are welcome to stay,
through spring rain
and autumn crisping,
though you still search
for someone with soft hands
and bountiful breast.
And when my gracious gifts spill over
from my full-grown lap,
you scoop them up with wondrous hands
and all the hunger
of a Lost Boy

dear inamorato,
lightning strikes in my heart for you. our love is electric; a love so powerful that it could be the end of everything. because of this, we must be apart. the spark between us would have eventually led to fires and floods. we were nothing but destruction epitomized, the manifestation of pain. our love cannot be. although my heart is cool embers without you near, our love could only end in inevitable detriment. pay attention closely, our last storm is approaching. look to the sky, this is my good-bye. our love was cumulonimbus clouds and lightning strikes, i cannot forget and neither can you. i hope the sun shines, and you wish for the days when it was nothing but rain. i hope that you can remember this electricity. good-bye, my inamorato. good-bye to everything. can't you see, like a flash of lightning, i had to leave. so promise me that you won't wait around for the next lightning strike, for i am not coming back. our final storm has begun. look to the sky, look to the fading sun.
                                                            ­                                                          love,
 ­                                                                 ­                                 your inamorata