Once I lived deep in a forest
My bleeding heart turned to stone
I disappeared out in the shadows
A hollow tree I called home

I know what it is to be a hobo
Train to train, same house twice
I know how it feels to beg and borrow
To share my roll with scratchy mice

Once I even tried to phone home
But the number slipped my weary mind
And when I finally did remember
It all seem such a waste of time

Do you know what it's like to be a hobo?
Nobody knows you when you're down
Memories haunt you like a cold wind
I was lost but now I'm found

Now I live upon a mountain
High above the raging sea
Timeless, old but not forgotten
This hobo nature inside of me...

still silence,
solemn darkness
broken only
by shouts of
orange
and murmurs of
blue

burst of white
from which daggers
of light
protrude

imagine the Psalms
David
would’ve written
if he could’ve seen
this

This is your work,
Your creation.
You are everywhere,
in everything.
In the vast silence
of space,
our galaxy is but a speck,
one bulb
on your strand
of Christmas lights,
and our earth
is even more miniscule.
You stand on the outside
of this glory,
surveying your work.
“All of creation
sings His name”—
how many times have I heard,
but paid no heed?
It’s true, though,
now I see.

how can they say
this all manifested
from a bang?

say goodbye to the cold and dark nights
bye to the thunder and lightning that gave us frights

bye to the wind that howls all day
because spring is here
lets run outside and play

when flowers bloom
because winter ended so soon
when the sun shines
and brings happiness and good times