somewhere an emotion tumbles into existence
ex nihilo, or maybe not
in the great universe of the mind it could be from the outer rim
I can only feel the train rumbling in the distance
vibrating, gently

and then boom it flies in and explodes
right next to me so my blood and sinew
escape my gravitational pull
but the emotion doesn't care and it tumbles
and tumbles, like a snowball

a great cosmic snowball of misplaced nothing
or maybe it's a black hole,
because nothing escapes its horizon
everything around us goes rushing in
and it all is smashed relentlessly

around this giant ball is a fringe
of pretense
there must be some explanation in the brain
and so it is constructed around the emotion
justified by the emotion

if faith is belief without sight
splitting is justifying all the dark in the heart
no facts need apply
cause emotions don't lie
so we have this construct of make-belief

we burn on and on and die and die
nothing is real but the feel
and no one can try to explain
who can hear facts clamoring
in the middle of all this pain?

then boom and bust and the snowball
melts, and the star goes supernova
and all that's left is an eerie silence
and the construct created to explain
the anger that took the rein

what do we do with that?
it's a fragile paper mache
and the balloon is popped
and it was just air?
how is this fair?

we watch it collapsing
what do we see?
everything around is gone
consumed by the fury and the fire
now we can see

the moment of decision:
for you, for me
how do we unwind
the mess that was made
from this ball of irrationality?

I remember you with the brown eyes and
blonde hair, arranged in a cute little bob.
I remember you, bright smile and dark tan,
looking for her first babysitting job.
The toddler-you made me quake in my boots,
but the older-you seemed collected and cool,
a teenager with solid family roots,
popular and very well-liked at school.
Today it's all gone. I ache for your mom,
and your sisters, your brother, your dad.
The pain you've inflicted has little balm--
Did you know you could make joy itself sad?

Words fall; they clatter to the floor like
the shoes the five-year-old discarded
or things returning to gravity
after an extended time in space.

These thoughts had just been dancing
between us, whipping between us
ruffling our hair and mussing
any claim we had to perfection.

But then, you snapped your fingers
and they fell. Harmless, motionless
there on the floor where we dropped
them, and, by will, we forgot them.

Yet: I did not snap my fingers.
I let go when I saw your words fall;
I let go and mine fell too, joining
yours in sparse synchronicity.

(and you don't know what an act
of blank force that was for me
to fall with you in a mad hope
that I don't even grasp or hold)

I know you think it was your snap
alone that made the words fall down
to be dead and harmless echoes
for you to forget so promptly.

But I let go. Through bitter choice,
determination. Sad reaching
for character and battered love.
My words were pain; yours were knives.

I'm glad you dropped them. Obviously.
And I'm glad I did, seamlessly
so that you wouldn't notice how
we just papered over my blood.

Forgiveness is a sticky thing,
most brilliant when drowned in concealed tears.
And my words, fading equal with yours—
the messy debris of the holy.

The lies we tell
About happiness
About ever after
Fragmenting us
Pieces of a beautiful picture
A puzzle
So pretty, so art
Until you pick it up
And pieces in your hands
Fall
In a heaped mess.
Love that is whole
So whole
Such an example
Such a lovely life.
But we know
We hold disconnected, broken bits
Torn out of our souls
Just pretending
To be one
To be beautiful
When two become
One
Set of shards.

Pain etches deep in the mother's heart.
Fear burrows into my soul.
Are the ducklings home,
And will they remain?
The moment, I can feel, is so fleeting.

If I could see the future, would I shudder?
One day will they hold me, or scold?
These days I'm writing now, will they return and haunt me?
Oh children, am I bringing you joy or pain?

These little ones are so simple to shepherd,
But they grow into each a man.
And the adult will reflect and stand alone and judge,
And I'm afraid they'll find me wanting.

I see my failures lined in a row
And I know there are more beside
Invisible to my eyes but written in their hearts
So fragile were these things I treated so roughly!

Pain etches deep in the mother's heart.
Remorse buried in my soul.
Can the ducklings, grown,
Forgive my mistakes?
These chances were so quickly fleeing!

In history,
Anonymous was a woman, she said.
And certainly,
Anonymous has since been me.
I've been hiding,
Not hidden. Afraid of shame.

I just want to float down
Like a leaf in fall
That has finally
Finished
The hard work of
Sustaining a giant tree.
And turning brown
Blowing out a brilliant
Hue
To fall down
And rest
On the ground
Crunched by the feet
Of the passing schoolchildren
And ground
At long last
Into dust.

our lives stopped in October
    with the brain tumor
    (that wasn't even ours)
and now there's a calendar
    and piles of things
    all stuck in October
while our real selves are in spring
    or is it our fake selves
    gone on before us
with the impossible feeling that we
    will never catch up
    still here in October
and the flowers are blooming
    the April showers
    bringing May flowers
to October.

in October he died
    though his body lingered on
    his meanness and vanity too
but there was never home again
    no corn from the garden
    no last buck to bring down
everything that should be
    died just before fall
    though life continued to gasp
through Christmas, into winter
    half-life, half-stopped, desperate
    and breaking
since October.

The soft breeze picks up my hair then drops it
as dark clouds come rolling through the sky.
Rippled in gray, the world becomes less lit
as though the heavens above thought to cry.
But don't weep for us now, it's beautiful.
There is nothing so glorious as dust!
The smile on my face is not dutiful—
this is joy as the wind begins to gust!
Something inside me loves the dissonance:
the broken sun runs away, reflecting
the desperate gasping for deliverance.
A return to the day we're expecting.
   The rain, the wind, all mutely testify
   to each bright day suddenly gone awry.

"Mama, why
do the boys stare at me?"

She stares at me with her
bright green eyes
and golden wavy hair
that falls perfectly.

"Mama, why?"

What in all my years has prepared me
to answer this?

"That's—because—"

Ask me no questions,
I'll tell you no lies.

"Because—"

I flounder, but she
doesn't notice.
She just stares at me,
waiting.

I think.
I should have looked this up.
I should have anticipated it.
I stare at her.

"Hmm?  Mama?"

I decide to brush it off.
"You know why. You're
just fishing."
I tease.  Deflect. Wait.

But still she stares, so I lean in.  
Hating each word before it emerges.
As if the sum of our existence,
our attractiveness to the world,
our usefulness,
hangs on this one flimsy, filmy,
fleeting facet of our being—

"They stare because you're pretty."

I smile love at her.
Before I walk away.

the beast in me wants to romp
and enrage the beast in you
tonight

you see my beast is locked up
in chains, a fearful cell--
locked tight

but when yours calls mine
it answers with unabashed
delight

"set me free," it begs
and the shadows grow
with fright

with myself and my desire
my deadly determination that I—I
am right

then your pet answers me and
out they fly—sparks and gunpowder
ignite

the beasts in lethal fury
grievances, protests, objections
recite

unfettered, unchained, and uncontrolled
they spin, they soar, they destroy
they fight

we lock away our agency
our wisdom—our love
from sight

our pets are eating us, my dear!
we look at each other and mourn,
contrite

too late.  the damaged flesh
has uncovered our bones and shown us
each bite

there is no return.
but perhaps if we wrestle,
unite?

with every power we strive:
we send those animals back into
the night

when the morning breaks at last
have we gained
insight?

are we richer than before?
do we know any more with
hindsight?

is it worth the blood we bore
as our beasts fought before
daylight?

silence. there is no good
from letting the beast pretend to be
a knight

we have not won this day;
the events do nothing but
indict

we must build cages that hold our beasts
that constrain this ugly temper
more tight

and keep our hands off the latches
because love is always better
than spite

One beautiful day in June I met you,
alone with borrowed car and fluttered nerve,
trusting. Our God would keep and see me through.

I ate my lunch, watching your every chew,
and laughing.  I saw also how you serve--
one beautiful day in June I met you.

We went to that marsh--then truly I knew,
though our brave path would not be without curve,
our gracious God would keep and see us through.

We sat on grass under the sky so blue,
and talked theology with no reserve,
that beautiful day in June I met you.

Those early moments when it was so new,
we carefully tried the other to observe.
That beautiful day in June I met you
knowing that God would keep and see us through.

We went on, we struggled, and so we grew.
The miles stretched far, the months much too long,
we thought. But God would keep and see us through.

One fine day in July we said "I do"--
and thus our partnership became lifelong.
We went on, we struggled, and so we grew.

So many days, we didn't have a clue.
We are sinners, prideful, selfish, headstrong.
Despite us, God would keep and see us through.

We looked in the mirror, in the Word too,
and have often found ourselves steeped in wrong;
we went on, we struggled, and so we grew.

Somewhere with grace it began to come true:
we two, as one, started to plod along--
We are seeing God keep and see us through.

With all those past years and struggles in view,
in grace our love is learning to be strong.
That beautiful day in June I met you,
and every day God has kept and seen us through.

travelling down a road
to a place I've never been
dashing in my own direction
getting lost once again

hearing the patient voice
calling me back home
saying "follow the road"
but I too often roam

thinking I have a pack
of heavy weight and care
the voice says "I have it"
and suddenly it isn't there

tripping over the rocks and roots
my feet just plod along
he tells me to look up and dance
and starts to show me the song

it sings of sorrow and of grief
of love betrayed and promises unkept
but there's a thread of faithfulness
and joy at which hearts have lept

the voice tells me this measure is mine
and shamed I hear the minor key
until suddenly brightness fills the song
he explains this is his work in me

the new beat floods my soul
and my feet find life of their own
for joy I dance, to joy I dance,
and I do not dance alone

flirtatious stolen glances resting
in the churches' company
speaking with inhonest subtleties
and darting furtive eyes
forthright is incarnate as a fool
as evasiveness is deified
carefully intertwining the moves
the delicate dance continues
speak and rejoin to play the part
in the precise code of conduct
step once wrong to tear the sail
disband aspiration and expectation
the night is too important to take heed
abandoning the morning

i came to the forest
reckless and ravished
hopeless and poor
i came for redemption
but it was no more

the trees starkly glaring
crushed leaves in my wake
a trail of all that was wrong
and all that remained was
the softness of the poet's song

i heard the song
enter the mountain
emerging a flowing river
it calmed the waterfall
and made the rock to stir

it echoed the valley
and sung of the moon
it loved and it left me
back where I began
with renewed eyes to see

i have entered the song
and the song has entered me
i have heard the harmony shift
as it completly transformed me
and left the twice-edged gift

i hear the song still
the melody lingers on
i love the sweet sad tune
but I cannot escape
the song's tragic croon

i am singing now
reconstructing the notes
trying to rewrite the song
into a higher, nobler key
but my task will be lifelong

i am a fugitive
from its call
it is ******* my life
and if i cannot stop singing
all will be lost in the strife

the sun shone bright against the water
the waves rippled gently in a shallow wake
and the clouds floated lazily through the sky
as the geese landed gently on the lake

there was no past and no future
no dreams of what might come
only the beautiful and awesome reality
that today was not yet done

we talked of crushes and cooties
and all of the older far-off dreams
but distraction surrounded us with play
life was exactly all it seems

in those sunny days it took so little
to make our bonds and hold them strong
we played together in the muddied creek
and nothing could make that go wrong

they told us to enjoy our childhood
they told us it'd soon be gone
we absorbed ourselves in every moment
but couldn't understand our dawn

one day we stood and looked out
over all we'd done before
and realized with bittersweet astonishment
we had walked through childhood's door

as we waited on the threshold
tenatively awaiting our turn to leave
we knew what we had could never return
as surely as we knew we'd never grieve

this frizzle of excitement
daring--not daring--to hope
the flag feels the tug of the breeze
but can't unfurl
waiting.
to take in a breath, and not know
whether water or air awaits

You.
The other mommies of babies
fallen from life
banged mercilessly on the pavement
of our wombs
and broken.

You
you held your baby
lifeless
but you held him.
you held her.
You took pictures.

Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day
your Facebook status—
you beg us to remember.

I understand this.

These little souls no one knows.
No one connected to,
no one will remember.
No one cares.

But we feel the fluttering.
We feel it in our hearts,
that desperate gaping—
and in our bellies.

You want us to know: your baby.
You, mother.
Soul vanquished.
Soul rent in two.
The weeping, the never was,
the forever is.

And so you post pictures
of the baby
you held
dead.

But we—
we are the mothers who flushed our children into toilets.

We are the mothers who tried and tried to grasp
to hold
our baby
our dead baby.

But ours was too small.

Fishing through mountains of gore
pieces
was that my baby?
is this my baby?

In silence.  Alone.  Torn with pain,
solitude, anguish, bleeding.

Grasping at something—
this might have been the baby.
Flush it down.

How?

Is this what mothers do?

You held your baby.
You ***** a memorial, maybe even a burial.
Or ashes.

We are the mothers who hold out ****** hands
in silence
and babies lost somewhere in the septic system.

Should we take a picture?
Do you want to hear our story?
On this day of infant loss remembrance,
do you want to hear how we caught
the amniotic sac
and held it up to the light
hoping
and terrified.
What if we saw the body?
What could we do?
There are no hospital or nurses in our bathroom.
No cameras.
No burials.
Only blood, blood everywhere—
and the toilet.
And the sac, if we find it—
it might burst.
And then our baby might go out with the mopwater
or lie unnoticed on the ceiling.

Somehow we lost our baby.
We can't find it.

I wish I could have held my baby,
given it a name.
But I lost it.

Weep with me, too.

Bits of thread, left to lie;
all that remains, and I wonder why.
Pieces left of a bracelet made;
for my friend, who "goodbye" bade.
I think at last, our friendship's broke;
it has been a year since last we spoke.
Not sure what happened, I haven't got a clue;
what drove us apart, us friendly two.

he stares down the empty bottle
    graceful brown glass shattering his pride
swarthy foam defying his ambition
    a reluctant sigh escapes
as he comes to the slow realization
    in a moment of despair
he cannot write a poem
    about an empty root beer bottle

please kind sirs
    i assure you i meant no harm
-can't you see the poor girl is telling the truth-
revered jury i apologise
    i didn't realise my sin was so great
-really, gentlemen, it's a first offense-
i take all the blame
    i was where i should not have been
-a girl's got to make a living-
weaving my webs of destruction
    i accept the punishment
-please, have mercy-
execute me if you must
    but wouldn't it be easier
-hear her plea-
to simply be rid of me
    show me the door i'll gladly leave
-i beseech you on her behalf-
please, miss muffet
    was quite mistaken
-hear, hear, the witness is tainted-
an attempt at friendship
    has thrown me on the mercy of the court
-save the poor spider-

It's a good life she's got going--
there's her dude and her dress
matching shoes and a patined purse
and nothing to worry about

the stereo never stops rocking
she never tires of what it plays
the clothes in her closet are innumerable
the styles guaranteed never to change

her shirts are never wrinkled
her eyes never shine with tears
her hair in perfect plastered permanence
her expression is always the same

a timeless smile reveals perfect teeth
a sparkle carefully painted in each eye
and it is always this way
and she swears it'll never change

life happens and she strives with the flow
eternally up-to-date the miss of all
she's the perfect dream within reality:
she's the cut-out paper doll

True it is a lonely road
my feet dance upon
But tell me how can I be alone
when there's Someone to lean on?
Someone waiting, watching me,
guiding me every toward the goal -
tis He who keeps me company,
the Savior of my soul.

I tred a path too few have trod
I walk a narrow way, most favor the broad
What I do brings no fortune or fame
sometimes it brings a smile, oft only shame
Occasionally a friend will walk along with me
but rarely enough do they see what I see
So on this long road, I oft feel alone
I stop and think, and then I groan
for I tred a path too few have trod
I walk a narrow way, most favor the broad.

Me, myself, and I are having a
    party today
You weren't invited, but couldn't
    have come anyway
There'll be ice cream and cake
we labored all night it to make
We'll have a housefull
that won't break a single rule
But it'll be lonely for us three:
Myself, I and me.

looking out my bedroom window
i see a stretch of endless black
called a street in normal life
this simplistic title fails for me
because it is a metaphor
carelessly constructed
of half-breathed truths
that echo something larger
i am the car that goes 55
through this lazy neighborhood
seeing what is on the side
but never quite deciding to slow
not that i could stop anyway
that is okay i gladly fly away
because even though i dread
the fact that i will never see
this beautiful street again
i journey to a destination
fairer than the one that is here
wave to me as i go by
weep for the neglect of youth
but never persuade me for a moment
that there is anything worth
stopping for except the end

as childhood slips through our fingers
like sand from a broken hourglass
we tighten our grip and try to keep
all the remnants we can grasp
and as every piece slowly vanishes
we look up to see how others fare
judging superiority to establish order
if we could steal from our companions
we would not hesitate to add to our pile
but that has been neatly *******
so that we get nothing for our trouble
though we may lose a friend meanwhile
it would be nice if we could realise
the hourglass is not destroyed
and if we could only see it truly
then we would see that this obsession
with gaining what we cannot hold
is a troublesome mythology
because we are seeing upside-down
the glass of time may be running low
but only because eternity is filling up
and as time trickles away wisdom proves
the things lost are nothing
compared to the things gained

every poet the world deems great
has written an elegant legacy
dedicated to himself
tallying all his wisdom
as he glorifies in his shame
he decidedly exalts his ego
and spreads the infamy of his name

so my muse, accept my invocation
as I write myself into epic proportion

collecting the vast library of my life
I eagerly fold back the cover
of the first volume in mint condition
but as I open it I learn astonishment
every page shines in unblemished white

in my fearsome excitement
I **** each book carelessly off the shelf
tearing pages and breaking spines
as the discarded books crash to the floor
and when it is completed all I have
is a pile of broken futures
and only a slender volume represents
the object of my reckless search

this book now my chief treasure
I sit down at my cluttered desk
to incline my ear and listen
and discern what material is worthy
for inclusion in my great work of art
but I am shocked to discover
that the pages hold insufficient promise
except the whisper of future possiblilities
which I have just hurled into dust

in the grand tradition of yesterday
I must finish in the same way I began

every poet who has written
a heroic tale of self
has exausted all his wonder
and reduced his life to metred lines
the good things are all gone
and all that remains is bleak and empty
when seen in the light of dawn

once she could think well; the world catered to her call
no monsters hid under piles of newspaper over warm grates
the street was a black river, not an interruption of being
strangers sold tainted chocolates; the apocalypse was being lost
but she revolted to the wrong road and saw a flash of color
as the landscape came with thoughtless clarity
alice could never resurrect a deadened neverland
true utopia was reclaimed and found to be in reverse
the rosy view of a negative came in three-by-five prints
although she discarded knowledge and journeyed to kansas
her eyes could not forget the lure of exquisite babylon

sometimes i just--shut--my eyes
think of what could be
a brief instant of mixing--reality--
fantasy--
wings melting i crash--into the sand
the waves washing wet--over me

the sun is too--hot--hot hot
i can carry the fire--up
but i cannot put it out
in all my ice i cannot **** the sun
so i am building a castle--a sandcastle
with parapets and a gated moat--

i knock it down with a crash
destruction was my primer-book
cynicism my blue-backed speller
so i lock myself up--in my room
pretending to be named emily
in my flawless white dress

the old nickname e.d. is transformed
until i remember--myself--
i am not a doll
and i--am not--afraid
the world can be--irrelevant
i will not abandon life

****** half-hatched into reality--
lost in a foreign land unknown
a sojourner who has lost--the song
peregrine with a misplaced home
the repressed truth will arise--
i will find the beginning--in the end

i fly back up--fire in my pocket--
bid cheerful farewell to the sun
good day to the beach-grains
rebuilding the--castle--
it is only--sand--
and i let it stand

life is reality--what took so long
and life that is really happening
is better than supremacy unlived
and i get lost--in omniscience
looking--skyward--realizing
i am a--grain--of sand

One day I shall leave this earth
and mourn not a whit its loss,
for though this world is fair indeed
on the far shore is a land more glorious.

I look with pleasure to that day
and beg it come without further delay,
yet I live here, this moment, this hour
where time is quick and swiftly gone.

As the Father has not yet seen fit
to call me to my home on high,
I travel this terrestrial terrain
working whilst I wait.

we grasp at every slender thread
    that dares to promise immortality
if the old man was like us, he would be
    the victim of our murderous duplexity
certain that an earlier yesterday holds
    the wonder of what we seek
yet when that day was here, it was scorned
    in favor of a newer, later week
we embodied the desires of today
    recklessly ignoring the tick-tock
but now, too late, we realize
    the most merciless of all is the clock

I only pass a moment here
a stitch in the pattern of time
I only contribute a measure
to the poem one small rhyme

although at times I seem
content with this world's view
I await something higher
I'm only passing through

I am waiting for the day
I can entirely cease to roam
and coming to my family find
I have finally come home

Goodnight sweetheart
My mother whispers softly
Ride to Dreamland tonight
Mommy, will you come too?
I'll bring a double-saddle
And come by your window
Mounted on Midnight,
My jet-black rocking horse
Or you can ride your own
I mumble as I fall asleep
Midnight knocks on my window
I go out and hop on for a ride
And off we fly to Dreamland
We stay until he says we must return
As we head for the horizon
I fall asleep once again
To wake up in my bed
And continue my other life
Until the next night
When Midnight rides again

I turn off the light
and dash madly into bed
as I pull the covers
high over my head
I observe a moment
of listening silence
before I peek out
in deathly suspense
to make sure every blanket
is away from the floor
once my task is finished
I don't worry any more
because I know
what lives underneath
and I'm quite alright
with him having big teeth
and being very hungry
big and strong
for he told me once
that we can get along
as long as I am good
never dangling an arm
or foot down to the floor
I have no cause for alarm
and I can sleep safely
because my enemy
is also my protector
he eats all, you see
and makes no exception
for you, or for me

an instant
    frozen in the annals of time
nature is
    paused as it watches in silence
in awe
    of the power nearly unleashed
fastest
    as the lightspeed barrier breaks
an action
    that makes the sun look reduced
suddenly
    as the entirety of all is transformed
an atom
    appears and multiplies matter
blindingly
    as a voice speaks and all exists

a name engraved in soft grey rock
immortalizing the remaining award
the door is shut, the key is gone
the thing inside, safely forever stored
once a grand and favorite treasure
it outgrew its use once adored
only a mistaken sense of memory
makes it the stone's favored ward
it is nothing but misplaced hope
that one day it will be restored
but it is simply barren ground
that is lost without its lord

he breathed a restless moment
and lost all worthy intent
the weary smile finally spent
he raised the voice of dissent

the sound stood up and looked at me
I stared in silenced astonishment
he breathed and I heard an echo
the stars drawn with a fallen leaf
I opened my mouth to reply
but the sound was nowhere to be seen

May life turn its path
    to greet you on your way
May the sun shine brightly
    on you after this dark day
May the things you touch
    spring up and grow anew
May your feet tread the ground
    bathed by the morning dew
May your road be pleasant
    and meet again with mine
May your heart be true
    to things unbound by time

the rain falls down and i close my eyes enraptured
warm bright rays are pleasant but i take what i can

not as if i can't remember yesterday's torturing release
the clouds my worst enemy intently forcing the ****

life would be an intriguing alternative to this mess
of stringy wet hair half-frozen to itself and my face

i have a minature tent to make camp upon my head
if i open it the tent will become a sail and steal me

the rain is beating, warm, friendly, almost-kind
assuring me it would melt the ice if it dared return

we exchange bracelets, initialed hearts engraved
but crashing thunder interrupts, no blessing gives

i look up and the dark is ripped, a slender white string
my new friend abandons me in terror to the frost

numbly i just -- stay -- i can no longer care
i am yesterday, and the sky is spilling sleet

i have a garden of yesterdays
with things pushing through the dirt to bloom
and in my house of tomorrows
is a ***** and a *** and a wheelbarrow
i guess today is the place
where the past and future meet
and i gotta go back to the garden
to dig up dinner for today
maybe it is brussel sprouts
maybe it is sweet potatoes
or peaches, even
i forget some of what i planted
but i will find out soon
when i harvest yesterday

Three keys carefully tapped out
remove doubt and make it clear—
this a joke, but that a frown.
Tiny clown, bring drear or cheer.

For some, two keys shall suffice;
but to be nice, make a nose—
'tis just a dash more trouble,
but hath double the fair pose.

Of course, we can't forget one:
for fun, the twice-dotted Ü
(although too tall and too thin)
is a good grin, fresh and new.

on the shore the water rises
as it swirls--swirls to cover my feet
I dig my toes into the softened sand
and consider the properties of land--
reaching down--I hold the grains in my hand
wondering at this pliant thing
that holds me here against gravity's wishes--
and what falling through would--feel--like

too long I have walked
down this dusty road
mindful of the journey
mindful of the load

too often I have thought
that skills and respect
were useful things to keep
and knowledge or intellect

and I have tried to gather
all the wisdom I could find
striving to be smarter and keener
learning how to be sensitive and kind

many good and noble things
I have thought or at least tried
even struggling to learn
how to listen and confide

but these things alone are weak and empty
however good they might do
for my call is vastly higher
and my wisdom is only you

what matter is it if the world hates me
if I never measure equal to their standard
what matters of expectations or praise
or if all I am and all I think is slandered

be all my vision, be ruler of my heart
you are my wisdom, my word, whatever befall
be all my inheritance and all that I need
my treasure, my best thought, the ruler of all

the road is yet long and I am yet young
and if ever I forget that you're the only one
bring me back and hold me close
and remind me why this race I run

spinning here in silence forever
wondering at the vastness of the sea
and thinking that if only each minute
would bring back tomorrow to me
living in the present reluctantly
for the future will never be now
and yesterday will never change
wanting the splinter of the soon
to fuse life and meaning for today
reaching and grasping and hoping
catching the wind in my fist
I found it only shadow and murk
the light rests unbendingly on this hour
and only in this hour can I find the way

in the cold of night the winter waits
as the autumn leaves fall unheard
their crushed brown skin lines the path
while the icy wind reaches my face
the road stretches out for miles ahead
running to the horizon and beyond
and though there is neither twist nor turn
it travels over many strange and lonely hills
and slants into many darkened valleys
before it disappears in its mysterious end
I see the finish in its blaze of brightness
an image of something clear but yet unseen
and when I look at the road that lies between
it looks cold and dark and a little empty
and everything out of my so limited grasp
is shrouded in the deeply swirling fog ahead
and all I have is the light shining before me
the promise that darkness will never fall
and the hope that this path is not all forever
for a moment I ponder the truth behind this journey
and see what an adventure it could be
how much more can a blind man learn of reality
than we whose eyes are clouded by what we see
and stepping forward I take the dare in silence
as the world behind me fades to a dull grey
and the light so bright grows brighter still
as with every step it grows nearer to me

sittin' in the bus station
waiting for number thirty one
watching the people around me
the woman with the little boy
and the old one looking lost
buses come and buses go
but the one I want never comes

I walk outside to stand on the sidewalk
waiting for number thirty one
ask the people where it is
finally they say it disappeared
somewhere in the north of the city
it could be here any moment
but I watch and it never comes

sitting on the bench in worry
waiting for number thirty one
to give me its precious cargo
they told me it would be here an hour ago
they tell me there's nothing they can do
they'll say there's no more information
and I watch for the bus that never comes

well I've been here too many minutes
waiting for number thirty one
my feet are hurting from standing so long
and I'm wondering if the bus is tired too
is the radio broken or does the driver care
I'm standing in chilling anticipation
watching for the bus that never comes

buses come and buses go
but I'm waiting for a special one
although with each new arrival I wonder
what if I'm looking for the wrong number
this bus or that bus could be my bus
and I could be here forever
waiting for a bus that never comes