In my fruit bag,
a gift:
a love mutation,
two grapes,
each to the other,
dissymetric,
but together fused
-- heart-shaped asymmetry!

I want so to hold,
to keep,
to make last,
but know decay.

So into my mouth
the heart pop
and sweet entropy
 consume.

How many times must I
take it into my own hands
to burry my sin?

I pry at my terrain,
digging up graves
to throw my mind inside.

But the whole in my soil
is far too shallow,
so when the night comes and the rain falls,
I look down at the dirt
I've scrapped from my palms,
and find that my
****** bones
have resurfaced.

Do I not see
I am digging holes in my hands,
a trench within my mind?

Why have I not
laid my shovel down,
when Christ has already
etched in my tombstone
my sin, that's dead?

I cannot avoid the night.
I cannot outrun the rains.
But I can send all my sin
His way.

I want to fall inside
of You,
and fill up all the holes
in my hands,
revive all the graves
inside my mind.

Whether we     admit it or not

     we
                             do try
to


                      conceal
       what's             ­ stored in                  our
minds. We

                         wear

          masks                   to
     be on
                                      the safe side
            But


we know
                       to hide             is not

            to be
                               awake