The life of dust
Doesn't seem like much
But you will never see more
than a single particle.

Floating softly through the wind
It sees all
The wonder and miracles,
The hatred and fear,
It sees more
Than the all seeing eye

However still,
No one will say
That they want to be
A particle of dust.

Living in those strange hours,
between each tick and tock.
Melting the moment's
from the clock.

A wakeful sleep,
all passes by.
Ideas appear,
then slide away.
Maybe they fell
below the bed
on which I lay?

Turning those strange hours,
around my mind.
Looking for the ideas
I never find.

It's not my job to give answers.



Yet.

I stopped writing love poems when I met you,
and started writing psalms instead: I took
your lips as the body and your hips
as the blood of a Holy Spirit you’ve been
hiding in your eyes, your eyes, your eyes
that I’ve been praying to
worship, worship, worship. Some would call
this feeling blasphemy, but since it is winter,
I am willing to take a little trip down to hell
to melt the cold in my bones, especially
if that means I can walk you back
to Heaven. But don’t take this all too seriously
because
I stopped writing love poems when I met you,
and started writing psalms instead: I took
your words as Gospel and raised them to my
tongue and matched it with yours to bathe
myself in your waters to wash away my sins-
and yes, I am a sinner, for I have undertaken
many a Crusade to prove myself worthy
of you. But the blood of my enemies is your
hips. The lips of those I have left for you is
your body. And still in your hell I find Heaven.
But
don’t take this all too seriously because
I stopped writing love poems when I met you.

My body is mine.
This skin will be new
in seven years,
and it will be skin you haven't touched.

I thought I was three years closer
to revival,
but you have struck seven more
on the board I wish didn't have a tally.

My body is mine,
but now it's yours, too.
You have a piece of me I will never get back.
So does he.