Your voice echoes in the halls of my mind,
Fills them with a few sweet memories
Just enough to get by until the day I die,
A vague impression that at least someone
Had love that I could seek or find the vine.

But in the end we'll all be in the room,
Standing before the alter, right? Judged.
Some sort of ideal of someone who is
Angry at the world and wants them
To get what's coming to them, no way
To break this cycle with patient time to lend.

Bitter sweet this whine, it grasps at straws,
Seeps its way into our hearts and minds
Where it finds there is someone divine,
That which we must all face his wraith,
"He'll" be the one, this God, his kingdom vast,
To fill our world with firey pain if we all
Don't confess and repent again and again.

No, I'm not here to argue that a God can't exist,*
Or tell you that no one made this world,
That we can't find ourselves in a better place to live,
All I'm saying is that if there were such a person,
Someone behind the mask who made all of this,
They'd certainly not be here to seek so much
A way to make us to pay for every wrong we ever did!

I am the true vine, and my Father is the vinedresser.
In Him is pure peace and pure life and none lesser.
In Him is everlasting and nothing's even better.
His Word is not a chore list, it's an eternal Love letter.

He prunes every branch that abides and Him and bears fruit
He seeks the ones that chose the path of endless pursuit
Of His face, His will, a branch who chooses to go all out
A life greatly lived, a life who can't live while Him without.

Every branch in me that does not bear fruit He takes away
A happy illusion, a path of the gold-plated astray.
But to a dismay, without the roots a branch goes dry
Thrown to the ground, iuyet picked up but thrown to the fire.

The branch whog stay true to the Vine pleases the Vinedresser
Who calls out to Him amidst the thorns, despite the world's pleasure
With so much fruit a branch has no better sign
When trampled by life would produce the finest wine.

A glance from you is a seed of kudzu.
The madness spreads,
wrapping around each tree,
gripping it in a panic.

This is not healthy.
I use you like I would pop pills
to forget about things
I don't like about my existence.

Can you lose yourself
within yourself?

Sometimes,
when I sit alone,
I wish the forest of my life would burn.
I would light the match,
and I could once again
see the sky.

You and I were the tree and the vine,
I was yours and you were mine.
I often felt that I was the tree,
for all the roots that came under me.
You were the vine, beautiful and light;
I loved you best for never clinging too tight.
You said that all along it was I who clung,
and then and there something died where I hung.
This tree of mine had changed its leaves,
and grown contempt within its eaves.
And I, the vine and parasite
was bid a prompt and cold goodnight.
By the time I fell to the forest floor,
life as I knew it was no more.