I feel forsaken
like a rolled newspaper in the rain.
Is that You? in the window box?
Is that You? magnificent in a woken engine?
I don't mean to be sullen,
a crushed flower with a brave yellow bloom--
I'm a vine growing in through the window
of your abandoned holy room.
Oh honey. My fingers flat upon
your smooth chest made of smoke,
I am rain falling ever further from her cloud.
Call me back---use your voice of spade-shaped leaves.
I will come, across the lawns and waters
to kneel at your feet
and sing.
Jul 21, 2025
Jul 21, 2025 at 6:40 PM UTC
I feel forsaken
like a rolled newspaper in the rain.
Is that You? in the window box?
Is that You? magnificent in a woken engine?
I don't mean to be sullen,
a crushed flower with a brave yellow bloom--
I'm a vine growing in through the window
of your abandoned holy room.
Oh honey. My fingers flat upon
your smooth chest made of smoke,
I am rain falling ever further from her cloud.
Call me back---use your voice of spade-shaped leaves.
I will come, across the lawns and waters
to kneel at your feet
and sing.
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