We know not what we do
as we wail and wince,
alone in the woods,
sheltered beneath the hot lights.
I close my eyes to hide
and gibber to be unheard.
The black in my head trembles.
The nothing, liquid and thick,
longs to be the silhouettes
of things forgotten.
Ancient stars once called my name,
long before Yahweh.
Like a burst of Milhaud
they reached through eternity to me,
longing to be seen before they die.
I am made of stars.
I am the quiet that sings,
I am the dust that cries.
I speak the gospel of visible light,
and with it I create everything.
A boy claims the tabernacle shook.
He's right. It did.
Aug 16, 2013
Aug 16, 2013 at 8:15 PM UTC
We know not what we do
as we wail and wince,
alone in the woods,
sheltered beneath the hot lights.
I close my eyes to hide
and gibber to be unheard.
The black in my head trembles.
The nothing, liquid and thick,
longs to be the silhouettes
of things forgotten.
Ancient stars once called my name,
long before Yahweh.
Like a burst of Milhaud
they reached through eternity to me,
longing to be seen before they die.
I am made of stars.
I am the quiet that sings,
I am the dust that cries.
I speak the gospel of visible light,
and with it I create everything.
A boy claims the tabernacle shook.
He's right. It did.
