Life is like a bubble,
It pops,
Springs forth,
Into another,
Like a song,
or a note,
Long held,
engrossed, ingrained,
Shame is worse than death,
But death is worse than night,
Form is something else all-together,
We are blighted,
By the essence of what is unseen and not heard,
We are found by what is,
And what could of always been


I sleep in a dead man's retreat,
Slowly clawing the sky,
Looking for the reason,
Why the dawn is crying my name,
When the Lord is all I can gain