Straightening files and writing names.
Of fables, tales and speeches of unseen.
Where word of the fantastical align with his aims,
So there sat Albert, finding what he could glean.

"Where does the light go from here?
Where will I be when I die?
I wish not to be in hell, no line will I do there.
To heaven I feel most unlikely for I.

Juniper... I wonder where you would go.
Where the world would have you be.
I wonder to which place you would sow.
I wish you were here with me."

The poor man continued his sorting.
His plans, his ideas and their action with do.
And when all with which shined divine, became that reporting.
He took all with a sword to keep and run through.

For the words in the paper.
The lines in sand.
Wash away with lies much greater,
Than truth unable to stand.

Albert looked at the cross, he studied its wood.
The smooth lacquer that bore his touch.
And where the lines of his studies, of all that is good.
Turned dour eyes as a crutch.

"Where does god to be with man, hold in esteem?
The frontward facing pain in my heart.
Of a woman gone, folded in the seems,
Of a world that is tearing me apart."

He pondered and drew yonder to in a sigh.
And there was no one to listen.
And there was no answer from on high.
And so Albert moved on, he moved as if stricken.