My feet are in pain
From holding my ground
But still I remain
Enduring the sound
Of the enemy’s gain
On my position now found

The offensive!
The mud and dust
Swirling about, pining
For my dedication to rust
Or me to find my cause unjust
Though I waver not
My feet planted a must

I cannot say
If it is my
Head or my
Heart that keeps
Them in place
Refusing to start
The process of retreat
My resolve won’t be beat

Though I am unsure
If I am avoiding or
Embracing defeat

I must soon make
Distinction between
Perseverance and deceit
As I know eventually
My Maker I will meet
Am I holding His line
Or withholding Him
His proper seat?

All I know for certain
As I endure the wind and sleet
Is the acute awareness of the
Other. The
Same. With
True love replete.

He loved the lovable
And the unlovely
What of the pious man’s
Calm sleep?
The twisted man’s
Desperate plea?
Though not yet fully forged
I know my identity
Has garnered
The Good Judge’s mercy

And though I can’t fathom
Why He bows before me complete
And I know not the glory or
Depravity of my life’s feat

I am stilled as a child
Before the patience of a creek

There are plenty of reasons
To wash these feet.

a congregation
of creation,
Aspens gather in;
between the hills
where sunshine fills
the church of the ravine.

triumphantly the hymns
that play
on many golden ray,
light the way
for trees that pray
and touch the Heavens' gate.

a gentle breeze
is not perceived
except on leaves of green,
whose bright colors
quake and nod
moved by a breath of God.

their branches white
bathed in moonlight
reflect a spirit strong,
stood straight these years
through storm and tears
with roots in solid ground.

the Aspen Grove
how I would rove
a childhood of dreams,
my spirit always
spoken to
in company of trees.

Non-believer in a holy land,
Stained glass tells my favorite fairy tales,
While crypts whisper to the Angel choir,
"Gloria a Dio.. Cristo Pietà."

The street reeks of burnt things,
Incense offered to the man in the hills.
Perched above the people and nestled below the heavens,
The tranquil streets carry their own version of history.

Father says this place holds magic,
And I fear to displease him.
I'll pray for him on graves and make blood sacrifices,
But not for me, my soul is already liberated.

The streets glow bright neath the shadow of church spires,
A history that speaks for itself.
The hills will sing its praises as will I,
For the piazza of storytellers,
For the direct line to martyrdom,
Never will I fathom them.

We fell together like we had no other choice.

We fell like two body bags in the back of an ambulance.

And suddenly you were killing me,
a razor to the femoral artery in a bathtub.
My own shirt wrapped around my diaphragm,
your laughter made louder by lack of oxygen to my brain.

And there was nothing else.
My wold turned black and gray because of you.

When I was a real girl,
back before I ever met you,
I would pray to god for a cleansing rain to wash me of my sins
so that I didn’t burn if I stepped foot in his home.

It has rained 729 times since then
and I am still stepping on hot coals.

She is the messenger of God
and she is also the definition of sin.
She wears red underneath the black and her  lips are still warm with yesterday's prayers.
And while he was touching her skin and they were both close the light broke and from her lips the dirtiest little sentence came out in a white puff of pure ******;

                       "Oh God have mercy!"

I was swerving
all over the road
with bursts of wails
coming from deep
inside myself
tears in my eyes
sputtering little
curses between sobs
and I thought to myself
"that church's sign, it's been up
for forever"