I pick up my brush
to a paint a master piece
I work on my art
While my art works on me

I paint a women on white
While outside of my focus
The paint holds the brush
And stains me into a canvas

The walls are made of plaster
And the bench is made of stone
The music made of nothing
And red cars are made of metal

But no they are all made of sponge

The walls hold your words
Ones that bounces off on their way to me
The bench holds your shape
Huddled broken against the cold

The music traps your voice
I feel it break my heart with every note
Red cars send me running
Thinking you must surely be inside

Your shadow selves must be paint
Spattered on every place you touched
Because how else can everything
Remind me of you so horribly

How can I hear that song
Or lean against those walls
Without coming away soaked
Covered in memories of you

Yellow coats and squeaky shoes
Butterfly nets and umbrellas blue
These are best for hunting frogs

Quiet giggles and smiling friends
Tall water reeds and river bends
These are best for finding frogs

Slippery mud and misty rain
Grassy tumbles and many stains
These are best for catching frogs

Slimey fingers and careful grips
Awed, sweet glances and grinning lips
These are best for holding frogs

Happy tears and soft goodbyes
Brand new name and darkened sky
These are best for freeing frogs

There is nothing
like the wonder
A curious soul feels
When they come
To a new idea
Molded in lead
Housed in paper
And filled with
Imagination

I cannot help the blind to see
like my God from up on high
but I can help another believe
light can be found 'neath a clouded sky

I cannot cause the deaf to hear
no matter how hard I try
but I can listen to another's fear,
be the shoulder on which they cry

My Lord can cause the dumb to speak
and free them from their silence
And prehaps I can talk with the bleak
speaking words that may give guidance

Some souls are trapped in the darkest night
And never could I bring freedom
But while the Lord shines out His light
I can show them his great kingdom

Others stumble on their uneven roads
And I cannot be their path
But I can bring them to the Lord's abode
Bringing The Way within their grasp

I wasn't made to raise the mountains,
Or become mighty like the sea
but perhaps I can be a little fountain
saving not the forest, but at least a tree

There is a road
you can only walk once
where every left footprint
is the last of its kind
and every new step,
is an adventure unique

For the road we have walked
crumbles away behind, empty
And the path we will walk
has yet to be built, a void
only the place we stand
truely belongs to us

But up aways, far into the fog
a vague light glows bright
calling us to a tomorrow
signaling the end of the road
the turn in the path
onto one that never ends

if every moment is a chance to create
a time to grow, a moment to make
then why do I wait for another time
to make the dream me truly mine