The calls for prayer

freeze and fall in empty streets --


as sacred snowflakes.

I love and hate to see her when she cries:
It breaks my heart like a pane of stained glass.
But having washed the windows of her eyes,
I better see her soul's amazing grace.  
And seeing me through wet-washed window panes,
She better sees my faithful love for her.
So all her tears (that fall like summer rains)
Reveal us heart and soul.  Elle est ma fleur.
Thanks be to God for tender-hearted tears
That speak a deeper truth than truthful words.
Though truthful words are health to hearing ears,
Tears speak the truth that yokes us two lovebirds.
Thanks be to God for truth that's so conveyed.  
She's fearfully and wonderfully made.

Grandpa is bony,

his mouth speaks clearly, even --


though he says nothing.

She calls a street street,

but does not know bridges, and --


does not know dead ends.

Searches the room
For your smiling face
That brightens my day
But panic sets in
Because you are not there
Don't be gone forever from my sight
There are things I wanted to say to you
Can't let that moment pass without a clue
I needed clarity from you
We all know how this ends
Radio silence till the end

She performs her show,

spraying at the simpletons --


her tormented looks.

At most I myself

catch what I mean, with you it's --


misunderstandings.

Whatever you say

to somebody else, you say --


to yourself as well.

They don't understand

me, so I just say something --


contradictory.